Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Nora was five, they called her Xiao Taiyang —the little sun.

Her childhood was her feet dangled in the trees and hair caught in the branches: always one step away from the light.

She remembered her hand as it grazed leaves and sunbeams.

She remembered her father’s worry: nothing but a whisper in the clouds. 

She remembered the fall, a scream to the ground.

Cuts and bruises donned her skin, but her brother bore the blame. He held the burden of the eldest despite his sickly frame.

“Xiao xin!” He pleaded, “Be careful this time.”

Her legs built up scabs from falling.

Her skin created patches from sunburns past. 

Her bruises built on bruises from cartwheels in the street. 

Yet, she never cried—she refused to.

With every fracture of bones and scratch of skin, she stifled a scream and continued to climb and smile and play. Her father always saw through the thin facade and shook his head, but it was her brother who cradled her wounds and kissed the pain goodbye.

On days so sweet and sunny, they chased butterflies by the overgrown vending machine. On others, they crowded under the blankets and watched TV.

Twelve years later, however, Nora laid on the rocks at the bottom of the bridge.

She laid in a pool of red regret.

The sun gave way to the moonless sky.

A hot pain made tears prickle in her eyes—delayed but inevitable.

If she was five again, her father would’ve shaken his head as Gege Kong nursed her back to health. She pictured that overgrown vending machine. She pictured running around the grass and squealing her brother’s name, knees rough from scabs.

But Nora was seventeen and all alone.

Chapter Text

When Zuko was five, they called him a disgrace—someone lucky to be born.

That just makes you stronger, Zuko –his mother whispered sweet words into his ear.

She never reprimanded them for the weakness in his eyes.

She never pushed him away when the chill of the palace became too much to bear. 

She never told him he wasn’t good enough.

But, even in her arms, he heard the whispers and the sneers: A Firebender born on the peak of the Winter Solstice? How unlucky.

How dishonorable.

He was born in the breath of dishonor and disgrace–

–which meant he had to work for his honor every step of the way.

That just makes you stronger, Zuko.

Every mistake made in class, every stumble in his katas, every frown from his father whenever he spoke: he only thought of his mother’s warm gaze and gentle smile.

That just makes you stronger, Zuko.

His scars and bruises screamed at him to do better—no matter how much less Azula had.

Lucky, lucky Azula, born on the peak of the Summer Solstice –the thought taunted him every time she ”graced” him with her presence.

Eleven years later, he stared out into the open sea–a reminder of his purpose branded onto his face.

You weren’t strong enough: he remembered falling to his knees.

You weren’t honorable enough: his father walked up to him—suffering would be his teacher.

You weren’t good enough: a pain he could never forget.

If he was five again, his mother would’ve wrapped him in her arms, the scent of Fire Lilies on her clothes.

Maybe she would’ve brought them to the turtle-duck pond. Maybe Azula would’ve fussed and babbled in her arms, so different from her lies and sharp tongue.

But Zuko was sixteen and away from home.

Chapter Text

When Nora was five, it was hotter than hell.

She remembered her fingers trapped in her brother’s sweaty palms. Every step he took, every sound they made, every movement taken: all done with careful deliberation. 

Lest they face baba’s wrath.

She tried to pry her hands out of his damp grasp, but it was iron-clad.

When he looked down, he smiled as bright as the sun itself. But, she saw how the light drenched his concerned brow. He gazed between her and the house behind them, and the smile, no matter how bright, failed to reach his eyes.

It made her giddy.

It made her nervous.

“Remember to be quiet, Xiao Taiyang.” Kong’s whispers teetered on the edge of playfulness and fright. She, on the other hand, was still deciding where to sway.

“We’re going to lake?” her head tilted, “But, baba said stay in house while he job.” 

”Yes, baba did tell us to stay back at the house…” There was a careful consideration, a temptation in his legs to turn around–the house was right there, after all.

But, he shook his head and she saw the way his shoulders set. Whatever thoughts he had harbored were pushed to sea, “But…I–well, these are really cool guys–you know, from school?”

“Suh-cool. They suh-cool friends?”

“Mhm, and–aw man,” he grinned, his thumb wiping away the sweat from his upper lip, “isn’t it hot out?”

Nora nibbled on the inside of her cheek. She felt her shirt stick to her back and the hair plaster on her face, “Mhm. Air-con don’t work no more.”

“Exactly.” He swallowed and ran a hand through his wet mop of hair. His grip trembled on hers, but his gaze seemed resolute. Back then, his cheeks were full and full of youth, and his eyes filled with energy. Well–a timid energy more akin to a Jack Rabbit.

He took in a shaky breath:

“God, baba’s gonna kill me.”

“Gege big trouble?”

“...Just be really quiet until we get to the lake, okay?”

Of course, the first thing he decided to do was introduce his little sister.

“Connor, Ben, this is Nora!” He beamed as she studied the two boys.

They were tall: taller than her brother and just as intimidating. Their shirts were strewn to the side, and their arms held a fine line where it would’ve been: a border of sun-kissed tan to uncovered pale. Their hair was unkempt, and she saw the way their locks dripped onto the dirt; like morning dew in the tall grass. Ben’s hair reflected a sandy blonde like the sun itself. Connor’s was a disorganized brown. 

She saw the brunette’s face curl in contempt.

“Ew, Robin, you brought your sister?” he shuddered, “Did your dad put you on babysitting duty? ‘Thought we said no girls.”

Robin– she reminded himself– his English name.

Her brother was sheepish, “No—well, someone has to watch her. Dad’s in the garage working on cars.”

“Still, you brought a girl.” His offense made Nora’s face pucker. His blue eyes found hers and they bore into each other: a mutual disdain.

While the brunette whined and moaned, the blonde didn’t say a word. His gaze simply studied; glances that said more than Connor could’ve complained. Ben’s awareness made her shuffle and she buried her face into her brother’s side.

The blonde knelt to her height, “Nora, right?”

She nodded and looked him over.

“That’s a pretty name.”

He paused and gave her an expectant look. Still, nothing was said; what was there to say?

“You good at swimming?”

She shrugged–she knew how, but she didn’t know if she was any good.

Somehow, that answer was good enough. She saw it in his eyes before he even had the chance to speak. 

When Gege Kong made it to the water, he looked back to Nora, still waiting on the rocks, “Come on! Xiao Taiyang!”

“She won’t do it.” Connor rolled his eyes, “She’s a little girl. She won’t.”

“I-I’m coming!” she protested. But, fear made her pause.

What if it’s too deep?

What if I drown?

She wished her brother was still at shore, but he was already out there, waist-deep in the river. She saw him make his way back and hated how bright concern etched onto his features.

Nora took in a breath, “Gege, I can do it by myself.”

“Are you sure–?” 

She took a step forward, eyes closed. The frigid waters ran between her toes and pulled at her ankles. The deeper she went, the further it welcomed her with open arms, and Nora felt the nerves subside. A shiver went down her spine–but not from the cold. 

A thrill pulled at the edge of her lips.

She ran.

She squealed and laughed, the tension eased from her shoulders as she jumped and stomped and cheered.

She learned to fight against the current.

She learned to push against water's gravity.

She learned to splash against the sunlight.

The four of them were in the water until the sun set and their skin wrinkled – arms strained and determination resolute. Her muscles ached and her chest hurt from playful screams and childish laughter. The apprehension in Connor’s eyes just made her all the more determined. With every doubtful glance, every attempt to get away, she and Kong pulled him back in. If they played Marco Polo, she would shout “Polo” until her voice drew thin. If they played River Monster, she made sure she was the best River Monster they ever had.

The seconds turned to minutes.

The minutes turned to hours.

The hours turned to an eternity of scolding.

When her father found them, he murmured curses and grumbled worries until his tongue was sandpaper. He yelled and berated until his throat ran raw. He rubbed ointment on their sunburnt shoulders until there was nothing left. 

She practically tasted the scent of medicine; the bitter, herbal smell made her eyes water.

“You two go out and disrespect me?” His hands were rough against her smoldering skin, “I tell you to stay in the backyard! Mafan! You don’t listen to me, ha? Kong , what did I tell you about looking after your sister? I thought I tell you to put on sunscreen, too!”

Nora shifted in place, her gaze meeting her brother’s. His lips were pulled into a line–

–but the hint of a grin teased at the corners.

Their father’s angry mumblings turned into white noise.

It was worth it.

===

Nora awoke with a desperate gasp and a blinding blue.

First, there was the sky–an endless, cerulean sky with freckles of clouds .

Then, the sea–the vast blanket of indigo, whose ripples sent her body thrashing around in its mercy .

Finally, the cold –a piercing, unwavering sensation that sent prickles down her legs and shivers up her spine. It was the only thing that kept her awake and aware of the ocean’s lull. 

Her lips were parched, her fingers were wrinkled, and her clothes floated aimlessly in the vast emptiness.

Where…? Her head snapped in every which way, but it all looked the same:

An endless blue desert of nothing.

What is–?

When did I–?

How did I–?

The onslaught of thoughts pounded against her skull.

“What the fuck ?” She coughed—her chords ground against one another, like hot stones on her sandpaper tongue.

Guess talking’s out of the equation.

Focus –her heart beat against her ribcage, clawing for escape– how did you get here? Are there any landmarks? Anything that can tell us where we are?

Oh yeah– one side of her scoffed– let’s just look around for some landmarks: water, water–oh! More water!

Oh, shut it, Nora–what’s the last thing you remember?

Her eyes fluttered shut. The memory came back in flashes, mere glimpses of a moment:

I remember… falling.

She pictured it–the wind as it hit her face. The pit of dread as it sunk lower and lower and–

Yes, and?

The impact after that; there’s always the impact.

She remembered it–laying on the rocks and asking for it to end, eyes at the empty sky and hair drenched in blood.

Okay, and…?

…Nothing after that.

Bullshit, what else?

She saw it–the fall. The bridge. The pool of death formed at the rocks. The dance of a butterfly’s wings. The airy voice of an insect.

Yes...she remembered now. She remembered it like it was yesterday, a memory as vivid as blood and the taste just as metallic.

There was a butterfly, wasn’t there?

There was.

But…it talked. 

No, it didn’t. You were delirious from the fall.

But–!

Leave it, Nora. Whether or not the butterfly actually spoke, it’s not gonna get you out of the ocean.

The ocean– Nora let out a groan. She tried to run a hand over her face, but the crusted, wrinkled palms of her hands made her think otherwise.

I’m just in the middle of the ocean.

Great.

Just great.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

This is just–!

“Agh!” She scowled, more akin to a gurgle than anything else. She wanted to scream and shout and cry. 

She wanted to bang her head against the wood under her shoulders. 

She wanted to throw her backpack until it reached the moon.

Stupid situation and this stupid ocean and this stupid backpack–

Wait…

She felt around for the cloth, frozen prickles in every movement— Backpack?

Her cracked lips stretched into a tight smile— Oh my God, my schoolbag!

Her hands fumbled in the foam and she frantically scrambled for the zippers:

Come on…

Come on…

Come–!

Zip!

Down the zipper went and in the water poured.

“ Shit, fuck—” She coughed, her throat irritated and angry, “Fuck, stop talking—!"

===

She took inventory:

A soggy track and field shirt.

Soggy socks littered with holes.

Damp gym shorts.

A plastic make-up bag.

A phone with half of the battery she would’ve liked.

Six sheets of paper, lined with red markered “A’s.”

Five protein bars.

A water bottle half full.

Nora closed her eyes and let the waves push and pull her thoughts:

So that’s around 400 calories per bar…

How many calories do we need to survive?

I don’t know–

Food…food…you can live a while without food. What did your anatomy teacher say? Around a month?

We’re not going to be out here for a month–

Then, how long, Nora? How long will it take before your water runs out or a shark eats your guts? How long will it be until you find land or another ship spots you?

Shut it, Nora. If you could survive the fall, you could survive anything.

Did we?

What?

Did we survive the fall?

Of course we did–why else would we…

But, the more she thought, the further her heart sunk to the pit of her stomach–anchors that grew heavier and heavier. It felt like her heart stepped into the ocean with stones in its pockets.

How…how long ago was that?

How long has it actually been since the fall?

Her jaw set at the memory:

The railing as it slipped past her fingers.

Her hair as it tickled her chin.

The wind as it roared in her ears.

The weight of gravity as it kept pushing and pushing.

Down.

Down.

Down.

She shook her head, throat robbed of moisture: Never mind that. Focus, Nora.

Focus…

But the thought pestered and festered: Was she in heaven? Hell? Purgatory? A coma?  The coma felt more favorable of the three—she was only seventeen with graduation two months away.

A coma was temporary.

But death?

No one escaped their clutches.

And her family—she hoped and prayed to whatever gods or spirits were out there that she wasn’t dead . 

Poor Baba–she grimaced– first Gege Kong and now—

Her throat felt tight, choking on the weight of unspoken words.

It’s…

Her fingers absentmindedly trailed to her wrist. It wasn’t until the digits grazed bare skin did she realized she had done it–a force of habit. 

The butterfly bracelet that usually donned her sun-kissed skin–

Ah… her shoulders fell: I took it off.

She remembered the beads as they slipped past her thumb in a fit of rage. 

Her father’s voice and her own stung in her ears. 

The weight of grief had fogged over their minds–reason beyond saving.

She remembered the rain as it hit her face, and her feet as they pounded against the concrete.

She remembered her tears as they mixed with rainwater.

Right, water .

She unscrewed the bottle and the first sip felt like nectar soothing her desert skin.

Don’t think about home or your family right now– for the first time, both sides of her head agreed– I don’t care if this is hell, purgatory, or the bakery next door: I’m surviving this place.

Will you? A part of her scoffed: Will you really?

But, she ignored the doubts and the sneers of her own mind.

The gears shifted:

The hunger issue won’t kick in too badly until the next couple of weeks…let’s see…I have my bottle of water which I could take a sip of every couple of days. If I don’t get any saltwater in any of my open wounds I… think I should be fine until I see a ship on the horizon. Driftwood is a good sign, right? Right, shark problem, shark problem…I got tweezers in the make-up bag and they seem sharp. What else…what else….?

A breeze hit her skin. It kissed it with goosebumps and tickles of ice. She felt herself freeze—not just from the cold, (although it certainly didn’t help) but from the painstaking realization, the one that made her heart tremble at the thought:

Fuck.

The cold.

===

Nora came to a conclusion:

This wasn’t heaven–

–but it was too cold to be hell.

Her shivers did very little to quell the frost, and her muscles locked up from the frigidity. Nora’s eyes were on a constant sway of open and shut, a battle she felt herself losing. She had never felt as tired as this in…well, a while.

Even then, it didn’t compare to the absolute fatigue that weighed down on her shoulders, as if the sky fell on her.

It would’ve hurt if she wasn’t so numb.

Perhaps that’s what concerned her most of all.

Her eyes shifted to the dark, leathery mark on the side of her hand–she remembered when she first got it.

Nora wasn’t a doctor–

–but she’s had her fair share of burns from both sun and smoke. 

After all, when you put a seven-year-old next to a soldering iron, the combination ends in tears. She remembered: her hand held close to her chest, her eyes widened at the reddened skin–weeping and angry. The wound pulsed and screamed–

–but, she didn’t feel a thing: her nerves died in a soundless whimper.

The very things, she learned, that stood as her body’s messengers were called for in times of pain. They were protection and agony. They were sickness and health. They were everywhere but invisible.

They were important as they were minuscule–and to feel nothing in her fingertips, to not even feel the rough burn scar? 

Bad.

Really bad.

It didn’t help that her eyes refused to stay open.

She wanted to sink under the blanket of blue and rest until the end of eternity. 

She wanted to reach up to the moon and feel something in the tremors of her skin. 

She wanted it to pour its moonbeams and relieve her aching muscles. 

She wanted to laugh and cheer and wake up from whatever state of comatose she was stuck in.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted to wake up from this Godawful nightmare and see her baba and gege Kong, right there at the foot of her bed. She could afford to endure baba’s scolding and her brother’s timid patience.

In fact, she wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Stay awake, Nora –the backpack strap started to slip. She had the urge to adjust it–

–but her fingers were locked around the driftwood with no hopes of moving. 

Her throat felt dry–

No– shook her head– I’m not doing this. I’m not going to give up here. What was it that baba always said? If you want to eat an elephant–

–take one bite at a time.

And that’s what she would do:

One bite at a time.

One step at a time.

One finger at a time.

Move your index finger .

It should’ve been easy.

It should’ve.

Yet, her muscles ached and her mind strained. Her fingers were more akin to the color of her hair than anything else:

An ugly, shivering blue.

She grunted and grit and quivered–

Nothing.

Move your index finger .

It’s not moving!

Her teeth grinded together and clattered in her skull. Her eyes narrowed at the stubborn finger that didn’t dare move from its place.

One finger at a time– She reminded herself and attempted to quell the thunder of emotions: Well, try again—move your index finger.

It proved just as pointless as the last:

Nothing.

A flood of fear replaced her frustration: Why–why can’t I move them at–?

Do it again.

Her efforts became all the more desperate: every lull of frigid waves, every sway of the ocean’s wake, every threat of tears that prickled in the corners of her eyes–

She tried.

She hoped.

She prayed.

But, there it sat: as if it wasn’t her finger at all.

It’s not working!

Damn it, just move something, anything!

The cycle continued—the fifteen-minute, redundant cycle continued and resulted in fruitlessness. Nora licked her lips and tried again.

And again.

And again.

And again .

“Well, this is a sorry sight.”

She froze, but her mind was racing, frantic. She almost convinced herself it was the work of the wind–

But its words…

She shook her head: I must’ve just heard it in my head–

“No, you heard correctly.” There was a distinct amusement in its voice as if her floating body was the punchline of a joke.

There’s no one else here, you’re just hearing things, right? Reason tried to reason, but, there weren’t any favorable conclusions. She felt just as aimless as the sea itself.

Who…who said that?

A chuckle, “Ah, right. Try looking up.”

She felt every muscle crack and thaw with that simple gesture alone. Her breath came out as whisps and weak whispers that wheezed under the strain. Nora swore she felt frost grow on the blue tips of her hair.

When she finally set her eyes upon the voice–

She paused.

She waited.

She narrowed her eyes–

–but it was still there.

What the actual fuck?

The being was a translucent red–the stars from the night sky covered in that scarlet sheen. Its skin blended with moonbeams and created a vivid violet. Its beard snaked around his waist, and through it, she managed to see the clothes underneath: a traditional Chinese garb (I think), too ensnared in his red aura to show its true colors.

A red ghost– she gaped.

But, whatever it was before death, it wasn’t human.

A plethora of circular markings dotted its face: too random to be artificial and too symmetrical to be natural. From its brows to the sky above, twin horns protruded from the skin–like extensions of the eyebrows themselves. Bright orbs lined its shoulders and orbited it like planets. They moved with every breath it took. They swayed to every shuffle of wind. They bowed down to the crimson being.

Yet somehow, despite the enigma it was, its presence was familiar.

Too familiar.

Now I’m really losing my mind .

“Perhaps,” its voice whistled like the wind itself.

Or maybe it was the wind and I’m just losing my goddamn mind.

“I’m here to help.”

Right…right…the red ghost is here to help me while I’m suffering. At least make it quick.

“No, no, you misunderstand. I—well, I’m the reason you aren’t dead yet.”

Yet? You mean…I’m not dead? This isn’t hell or anything?

“No, but I can see how you think that.”

So that means I’m in a coma.

“Not quite.” The ghost let out a sigh, “It’s difficult to explain, but I can assure you that I’m here to keep you alive.”

…Can you–I don’t know, do some spirit stuff and get me a boat? Or teleport me to land?

“No, but I can—"

I don’t trust it .

“We’re running out of time here. I can… try to notify a ship, but my first priority is making sure you live through the night.”

She heard her father’s voice in her ear: it pleaded for her to step away from the red man with the devil horns. If Baba was here, he would’ve screamed “Our Father” until his voice scraped against his throat.

If gege Kong was here, he would’ve gawked until his jaw hit the bottom of the sea.

But, Nora was here–alone and as alive as one could be. Her body trembled at the sight, desperate for a touch of warmth.

…Alright, she relented, a deal with the devil it is, then.

“...I’m not a devil, but I’m glad you’ve come to your senses” he sighed. Nora felt the numbness spreading, “I want you to focus on your breath.”

My breath?

“Yes. Focus on the air flowing around you and how your body takes it. Feel where the air meets: from your nose to your throat, to your lungs, then your stomach. Hold it— hold it for two seconds, then let it pass through your mouth.”

Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth—got it.

“Now,” he pestered, “what do you notice?”

Her blue lips pursed together, the tremor drew them apart. She tried to ignore the chill up her spine and thrash of the waves; she kept her focus on the way her ribcage expanded, how her lungs filled with life, how every breath might be her last,

Then, she felt her breath tickle her upper lip, the spark of life melted away her frostbitten skin until it was nothing but seawater.

…My exhales are warm?

“ Exactly. ” She heard the grin in his voice.

I’m still gonna die.

“Don’t be like that, that’s just the first part. Now, do it again. But with every exhale think of a happy memory, a memory that frees. ”

A happy, freeing memory? Is this magic?

“There will be time to explain after you survive.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

Right right…A freeing, happy memory .

Nora closed her eyes, the frigid air passed through her: A free thought?

Her body bobbed up and down in the waves; she was nothing but a spec in its mercy.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It's cold.

Inhale.

Stop thinking about how cold the ocean is. Of course, it’s cold, it’s the ocean.

Exhale.

Oh, shut it, it’s hard to think about anything else except the water and air.

Inhale.

The water…the water…remember the river?

…I almost forgot about the river.

Exhale.

That was before we moved again.

Connor was pissed.

When was he never?

Inhale.

She remembered the gravel as it slipped past her toes–the water as it buried them further into the rocks. 

Exhale.

She remembered the sweltering sun as they danced and played and challenged the lake. She remembered giggling until her stomach ached. She remembered swimming until her heart burst. She remembered smiling until her jaw throbbed.

Inhale.

When times were simple, huh?

When the only thing we needed to worry about was who could create the biggest splash.

No school.

No father breathing down her neck.

Just her, them, and the river.

Exhale.

She opened her eyes. and squinted in the moonlight. It was apparent—the ghost was gone.

No horns.

No beard wrapped around its waist.

No red spirit that lit the night sky. 

Her lips pursed together: Of course, it was a delusion.

But, Nora felt her finger twitch.

=== 

Fatigue clouded her vision.

However, the waves decided to be merciful–just this once.

A shape floated in the corner of her eye, and a sudden burst of energy sprung her to life.

Is that…a ship? Her eyes widened and she drifted closer. Her heart pounded in her chest, a grin threatened to break through–

Until it inevitably faltered.

Oh.

Oh no.

The ship looked nothing more than a corpse: its ribs open and faced towards the sun. It reached out to the heavens and pleaded for another chance. Its blue sails poured from the tips of a broken mast like a pool of blood, and rope sprawled every which way, like strands of hair on the sea floor.

Worst of all–a strange, gray wolf helmet.

Its furs were crusted with salt, its nose shiny and bold, its silver sheen polished like a display of pride. Scratches lined the cool metal and paint chipped at the hem. 

It was used. 

It was bruised. 

It belonged to someone;

Someone at the mercy of the wreck.

Maybe they…were rescued by another ship.

But, the more she observed, the more she realized. The more she realized, the more her brow furrowed at the sight.

The wolf stared at her, bugged her to no end. It wasn’t the strange craftsmanship or the scratches on the manmade hide that pestered and lingered–but, rather, a strange familiarity:

Where have I seen this before–?

She shook whatever thoughts drifted onto shore: Focus Nora.

Focus.

Her limbs shook when she climbed her way onto the bones of a wooden giant, and its corpse creaked under the newfound weight. She had almost forgotten how gravity felt against her legs, how solid it was to stand.

She was almost relieved if it weren’t for the deafening silence.

She gathered whatever wood and ropes she could find, hoping, praying that a body wasn't rotting around the corner.

There wasn't.

Yet, somehow her stomach churned at the thought–

–that she was truly alone.

===

“Come on…” 

She pulled until the rope was taut and her muscles shook.

She tied the knot until there was no more rope to handle.

She pressed her feet against the wood until it threatened to sink.

Come on… her thoughts urged.

This one has to stay afloat–we can’t just keep floating in the water forever.

I know, I know. But, remember what baba said: to eat an elephant–

–you take one bite at a time. I know.

Even if it apparently took several days before she got down to the bone.

Her nails dug into her wrinkled palms. She watched as the sun dipped below the ever changing horizon.

She took in a breath: Here goes nothing.

Nora stepped onto the raft–slow and careful. Her foot dug into the splintered surface and rope hairs sprouted between the toes.

She wobbled.

She stumbled.

But, she stayed afloat.

There was disbelief, a doubt that fed and grew. She braced herself for the inevitable splash–

–But, the splash never came.

Holy shit. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Her cheeks ached from the strain of a grin, and the smile lines wore thin until she thought she bled.

She laughed.

She jumped.

She cheered until it rang in her ears.

And even then, the raft kept its shape.

“I did it! I did it! I did it!” Her voice was hoarse from disuse and not any less painful than when she arrived.

The only time Nora had ever felt such joy was when she first learned to change the oil of a client’s car. It was a simple job: a lesson her father easily taught. But to an eleven-year-old, she felt on top of the world and covered in grease.

Her smile grew brighter at the memory.

She glanced back at the shipwreck with the widest grin she could’ve mustered. As much as the boat (or rather, what was left of it) could’ve provided, she was ready to say goodbye.

Nora fumbled with the rope that tethered them in place, the sea foamed at the hidden surface rocks. She remembered the days when intrusive thoughts painted vivid images: 

Who owned the helmet? 

What did they look like? 

Did they wear it with pride? 

Did they wear it until the end?

Did anyone mourn them?

That question alone dragged her heart.

Well, no more pondering.

No more shivering.

No more wondering.

It was time to leave.

And as she paddled and drifted away, she faced the sky–a purpose set and head held high.

The sun set on the fourth day and made way for the next. 

===

Day five was idle, and boredom was a solemn realization.

Movies, TV shows, and YouTube videos always made surviving an adventure. In between struggling and rebuilding, however, there wasn’t much to do but listen to the torrential downpour of thoughts.

Well, that, and croaks of wood. 

Her raft slowly fell apart with each passing hour, and most of her time was spent resecuring the scraps. It did help the wood was made to withstand the aquatic conditions, but Nora was hopeful, not dumb: she wasn’t anywhere close to a naval engineer. If anyone took one look at her they’d see a little Asian girl with no idea what she was doing. 

They’d be right, but, still.

The raft bobbed up and down with the waves. Her cold shorts were tied around her head like a bandana, the extra shirt laid over her shoulders–and the socks?

Well, she found a stick and figured she needed a flag.

She let her black and blue shoes bask in the sunlight.

Of course, I left my sunscreen back at the hospital– She rolled her eyes, blue strands of hair stuck to her forehead– At least brought my track stuff.

Well, you brought your school bag by accident. It’s not like you were planning to get stuck in the middle of the ocean. Where are you going after you get rescued or find land, anyway?

Home, obviously. Remember what that ghost said? We’re not dead.

Before the raft, you said that the ghost was just a hallucination..  

Yes, but–

–And even if they weren’t a figment of your imagination, what are spirits?

…Dead people.

Exactly. 

She huffed, a bundle of rope in her callused fingers– The more I think about this, the more my mind goes around in circles! Am I dead or not?

I think–

–Yes–?

–That you’re just..confused.

Great, great. More answers raise more questions. Maybe just stop having a crisis and focus on surviving.

Nora rolled her eyes, her thoughts a constant back and forth. She knew the more she stood still, the more she thought. The more she thought, the more they bickered.

And the more we bicker…

The more you lose your mind. Wanna check that inventory?

I thought you would never ask.

“Alright, alright…” She sighed, thankful for the distraction. Her hands fumbled in the bag, “two waterskins half-full, a bag of wet fish jerky, two protein bars, a makeup bag with no foundation– lovely, ten percent phone, homework, and…”

She paused, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of time forgotten.

I…thought I left it behind–

Nora swallowed the lump in her throat and the memories that came with it:

A golden clip in the shape of a butterfly, tangled in the bundle of broken bracelets. Some of the string had cut itself on the wing, and the beads rattled at the bottom. 

Some had lost their polished twinkle, while others were missing entirely.

No doubt, they sat at the bottom of the ocean.

The idea almost made her nauseous.

Fuck, I thought I…

No, she knew she didn’t forget—she just failed to push it aside. The memory felt old and aged, dusty as it sat on the top shelf, but it hadn’t quite lost its youth.

She remembered it like it was yesterday:

The panic.

The crying.

The running.

She swallowed the memories down, down, down.

Nora’s hands were careful, shaking from the strain of fear. Every bead, every string, every echo of a memory was cradled in her hands, like a newborn baby. 

She kept the remnants in the front pocket, and double—no— triple-checked the strength of the zipper. 

She refused to think of it again.

But, she kept the bag close to her heart.

As the sun reached its peak that day, her fingers trembled. The butterfly clip wasn’t really made out of gold, but its wings still felt heavy in her hands.

I remember when Gege Kong made the–

She swallowed her thoughts, her heart weighed that of metal and felt just as cold. 

She couldn’t even think it.

How pathetic is that?

It slipped past the tangles of her sapphire locks and clicked into place–

–like it was right where it belonged.

===

It started as a tickle in the back of her throat.

Annoying, sure, but tolerable. 

She cleared her throat.

But, the annoyance fluttered in and out, stronger than the last.

The more she tried, the more it came back.

The more it came back, the more she tried to drink–

–but, it never went away.

It’ll go away– she tried to convince herself.

However, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she attempted to cough away the pesky phlegm in her chords.

But, one cough became two.

Two became three.

Then three became countless: a flurry of dry sputters and spit. Nora reached for the waterskin and drank as much as she could.

Just try not to choke to death on the raft!

How embarrassing would that be?

The wood underneath her felt shakier and her mind burned. The wind that was once too cold was now not cold enough. Her skin, though littered with goosebumps, felt like the pores would produce steam at any moment. The coughing fit continued, and she didn’t need a mirror to know how scarlet her face went, she felt it well enough.

“Oh God, please… let me catch…a fucking… break!”

Her back fell against the splintered floor and her skin basked in the moonlight. Its brilliant rays reflected yellow on the golden clip.

Just go to sleep, Nora –her waterskin was tucked safely under her arm, and her backpack under her head– you’ll be better tomorrow.

She hoped for a dreamless night.

===

She was as sleepless as the ocean.

Her mind was hazier than the days before and the shivering— oh, the shivering;

It worsened with each wracking rasp.

How long has it been?

Too long.

Nora wasn’t sure if it was whatever was on the shipwreck that made her sick, the prolonged exposure to cold, the bacteria in the ocean, or all of the above. But, what she did know, was she was just a lump of pathetic, shivering, goose-flesh, curled up into a ball on a shitty looking raft, now that I’m thinking about it.

The raft is shit, this situation is shit, this is fucking shit.

Thanks, genius. Took you long enough.

We were so happy! Now I wish we didn’t leave that shipwreck.

Me neither, but here we are in the middle of fuck-all nowhere thanks to your survival skills.

Well, sorry that I didn’t have time to do some research before I woke up in the middle of the goddamn ocean!

“I am…survivor girl.” Her speech was slow and drawled. The raft’s movements did little to quell her festering nausea.

Great, now you’re going insane.

“I am… insane girl?” She laughed, the nausea built.

What are you even doing? Get up!

No, no, no—I think I’m gonna stay here for a while. It’s comfortable.

“Comfy omfy omfy…” She murmured, and she wasn’t even sure why.

Oh my God. If only literally anyone else was here to deal with your shit.

“Ha ha! Shit! Bad word. Very bad word. Baba be upsetti spaghetti.”

Right, like your dad. He didn’t know what he was doing most of the time, but at least he had the resources to learn.

“ Baba? You got soup?” She laughed once more, throat hoarse, “I like soup. Soup good.”

Oh no.

“Ah fuck—” She rolled over. The raft wobbled ever so slightly to the left and her stomach ever so gracefully emptied its contents into the ocean.

There goes the protein bar.

The smell made her gag.

Not again—

===

The delirium came in waves;

Though every time she slipped out of it, it wasn’t much better.

The sun — too hot.

The ocean — too rough.

Her mind — too messy.

The world — too bright.

She was barely able to eat any of the salty, dried fish that hung from her mouth. 

It might as well be gum at this point— her mind drawled— chewing and chewing with none of it to swallow. 

Nora wasn't an idiot ( though the past couple of days are starting to push it)— she needed to fill her stomach with something.  

If she were to keep working on the raft, she would need energy.

Energy required calories.

Calories required food, not water.

But every single time she had something in her stomach, the ruthlessness of water was what made her spit it back out. Every rush of nausea only added to the emptiness in her bodily reservoirs, and she'd rather not waste any more food. 

So... save energy for your immune system, huh?

Yeah, just put the jerky away.

===

She tried to survive.

By God did she try.

A part of the raft pulled away from the ocean’s incessant waves. Her lips pursed together, her head nearly split open from the pain, but, she could manage.

I need to manage.

Her fingers fumbled with the rope, her mind swayed along with the sea: in and out of focus, a constant push and pull.

Focus.

Focus, Nora.

But, every time she tried to stand, the breeze knocked her down.

Every time she tried to go to the edge of the raft, the nausea built until there was nothing left to vomit.

Every time her stomach growled, she dry heaved on the splintered deck and tears blurred her vision.

She took the piece of wood and threw it as far as she could, a vengeful cry in her throat.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

She couldn’t even hear the splash: a distant memory.

So far from where it came from.

===

This is the end.

And Nora was sure of it.

She didn’t know if those birds were hallucinations, but they looked hungry. Nora clutched her bag close to her chest, prickles up her arm from sleeping on it.

What are you doing?

She eyed the birds: a family, perhaps— I’m just resting...again.

No, you’re giving up. Now get up and eat something. You look disgusting.

But, she didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

How long are we going to be at sea? How long will it be until we find another source of civilization? How many days has it been? Five?

Ten, actually.

Ew.

“This is the end this is the end!” She sang, her voice croaky as it was when she first started. Her mind was still a haze, and the fog was never-ending.

“The end the end the end the end. That is the end of the song!”

Man, you’re an awful singer.

Nora’s eyes fluttered shut and her mind made shapes behind the dark eyelids. This is the end is the end.

No this isn’t–

–I wish it was. I want this to end!

Well, it hasn’t ended yet, so get your ass up and–!

She couldn’t help but groan, the see-saw of thoughts refused to leave her be. She rolled over in attempts to flush them out.

But, her insistence continued. She heard a part of her scowl and tsk, the disappointment festered with each passing minute: Wake up.

No. She rolled over once more–a feeble attempt to silence those pesky thoughts.

Wake up, you idiot!

Nope nopity nope nope.

Stay awake!

The waves shifted. She’s been on the raft for enough days to recognize the ocean by its waves, and these…

…these were different.

But her eyes remained shut, like iron hinges that refused to budge. She didn’t know if it was the fatigue of dying or the fatigue of trying.

Either way, I’m tired of it all.

No, you’re not. Get up again–

–I’ve been trying for the past couple of days and they end up the same way! If I’m going to keep getting burned, I might as well just stay away from the fire.

You and your stupid metaphors, Nora–

Then, the sound of foam crashed against a solid form—something big. The push and pull of the ocean rippled its presence.

She willed herself to stay awake for one second more.

Her heart stopped.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her voice threatened to burst back to life.

It has to be a hallucination —she could almost cry — there’s no way.

It was a ship–

And it was alive.

Tall, dark, and menacing, the hull creaked with every metallic movement.

She saw the silhouette of a boy, ponytail waved in the wind like a fearful hello. She couldn’t hear his voice, but she saw words fall on his lips and a finger pointed at her figure.

Yes! She wanted to scream: I’m here! 

But, her body wouldn’t let her.

His blurry face was the last thing she saw before she let herself slip into oblivion.

(Was that a scar?)

Chapter Text

Zuko wasn’t a planner — he was a doer.

Yes, he’s had goals (on an impulse) and agendas (again, on an impulse), but they weren’t exactly plans. His plans? His goals? His agendas? They were decided by a battle strategist, a man built on war and made his children of the same mold: a mold he strived to grow into.

But ultimately, he found himself falling short.

Perfect these katas, Prince Zuko – he sacrificed nights in a row to come even close to perfection.

Tell me of General Bujing during the Battle of Stones, Zuko – he sacrificed days memorizing names of faceless figures.

Capture the Avatar, Zuko – he sacrificed years chasing a legend.

When he was sent away, he felt it was meant to be a luxury. After all, the banishment was just a test (right?), to prove that he was a loyal son and worthy of the crown. This is a test, Zuko, he could imagine his father saying, welcoming him back with open arms, Just as I had planned every step of the Fire Nation’s victory, I want to see what you could do for our nation.

But you’re the planner, father, he wanted to plea, I only do what you command—tell me what to do!

Every stumble, every fall, every wound—it all came back as sharp as a knife; of why his father planned it all in the first place.

He was a failure.

A disgrace.

A weakling who couldn’t walk at the age Azula learned to bend.

He almost forgot his mother’s voice, a dusty, faded memory that held him close and stroked his hair; a memory that fed the turtle ducks with the distinct scent of Fire lilies: That just makes you stronger, Zuko.

He could almost feel the phantom sensation of her gentle hand, missing how easily he could lean into it.

The moment he could walk again, he made demands:

“To the Western Air Temple!” He cried. It was the closest, after all. If he was an Airbender, the temples would be the best bet, right?

“To Qincheng!” They needed to stop for supplies, he realized a little too late.

“To Caigang!” The only other place on the map.

“Gechang!”

“Yongxin!”

“Chameleon Bay!”

The tired mumblings and rusty whining of an overexerted ship and crew crescendoed with every passing year: every day, every hour, every minute.

But Zuko, a prince with a heavy heart shaped by a heavy hand, was driven with every shifting sun.

He was a doer.

His father gave him one last plan, and if he failed to act?

He was nothing.

“Zuko-ouji,” A warm, gentle voice cut through the silence—the silence of a three-year frustration. The candles flared with each passing breath, “the crew and I were wondering if you have a plan.”

“My plan, Oji, is to find the Avatar.”

“Ah…well, you see,” he cleared his throat, “that is a nice goal, Zuko-ouji, but not quite a plan. Remember: A goose-monkey fleet migrates by landmark, not by destination.”

“I don’t have time for your ramblings.” Zuko’s meditative stance grew tenser by the minute, “How about this? Once we’ve re-stocked, we can…I don’t know—head towards the Southern Air Temple again! How about that?”

“…Is that the plan, Oi?”

“Just tell the crew that we’re going to the Southern Air Temple—whatever could be explored.”

“…As you wish. Though, I must inform you that Zhoubei is nearly a month away from the Southern Air Temple and—”

“I don’t care. To the Southern Air Temple, Oji.”

He saw his uncle’s shoulders deflate; his shadow painted on the candle-lit wall.

Zuko felt the room grow colder.

Two weeks made him restless.

The bags under Zuko’s eyes grew with every night pacing, training, and re-reading air-nomad scrolls gathered from his travels: his mind was rethinking, his heart was beating, his katas weren’t good enough, his basics were terrible, his eyes missed something, his mind was filling, his breath was escalating, his honor was—

“Zuko-ouji,” concern laced his voice, “How about we play a game of Pai Sho, yes?”

“Oji, I don’t have time—”

“Please, Zuko,” He glanced up from the scroll, indentations where his hands once were. His mouth went dry as Iroh's gentle smile became ever so forced to hide those sad, somber eyes. Zuko's hands went frozen in the parchment, rustling with each pulsing squeeze.

I remember when haha-ue looked at me the same way.

He squinted at the light pouring through the creaking door, hearing footsteps scramble to the side — he knew when his crew was lazing around.

Zuko glanced at Lieutenant Jee’s shadow of a figure dancing on his left, the scarred pupil only capturing figments. He didn’t need his full sight to know Jee's eyes were sharp and observing—watching, waiting. The three lackeys on his right exchanged hurried glances, looks that told stories only they knew.

But Zuko wasn’t here to scowl and lash at his crew—not today.

Not when his uncle so excitedly rushed towards the Pai Sho table.

It seems it was already set up beforehand. Was he this hopeful?

“Please, please. Have a seat.” He patted the pillow, his grin growing ever so slightly, “Oh! Sango-san—would you please tell Eiji-san to prepare Jasmine Tea? He brews tea with the precision and patience of a tiger-puma!”

“Oji? The game?”

“Ah, not quite. A good game is best accompanied by laughter and a good cup of tea.”

Zuko groaned.

“You dragged me all the way up here to wait?!”

“The most satisfying memories are ones that are followed by suspense and anticipation. As a fan of plays and operas alike, I thought you would be familiar with the concept.”

He thought he could see Lieutenant Jee suppress a snicker and his face felt hot, “I…well—yes, but—”

“Now let’s wait together, Zuko-ouji.”

This is my entire night, isn’t it?

“What?! Oji, I was one move away from winning, how could you possibly—?!”

His uncle let out a hearty laugh, Zuko nothing but a sputtering mess. The crew gathered around the table, murmuring strategies, and making plans in hopes of defeating the Great Dragon of the West in their next game.

He even saw a pouch of coins being traded across the crowd.

Bastards. How dare they bet against me?

It became less about whether he would win—but how quickly Zuko could lose.

Record?

“You lasted two moves longer than last time, Zuko! You’re improving rapidly!”

“Oji, I lost in three moves last time.”

“As I said, you’re improving!” Zuko felt his frown sink deeper onto his face, studying the pieces on the board—How did he get all the harmonies that quickly—?

He paused, “…You…weren’t just trying to block my tiles. You basically made me move mine so you could get the harmonies quicker!”

Of course, Zuko fumed, how did I not see that before?!

“You must remember,” His uncle, ever so patient, “Pai Sho is a game where every step counts. Your goal is to win, as is everyone’s goal, but how we get there is the most important part. To fish, it’s preferable to use a rod than to jump into the ocean, would you agree?”

His smile poked through his gray beard, “Would you like to play again, round twelve?”

“…I’ll set the board.”

He could see the coin pouch move at the corner of his eye.

Ugh, those idiots, the thought made him shake his head.

Just as he was setting down the lotus tile, the air started to shift—colder than before. He could feel his inner flame flicker. Zuko didn’t feel sick, but his body was in a feverish state: cold on the outside, covered in gooseflesh while hot and sweltering on the inside.

He paused, hand still holding the carved tile.

“Zuko? Oi?”

He thought he felt something graze his cheek, like someone passing by with no destination and no journey.

Just a man with a goal but no purpose.

(Sound familiar?)

Zuko jerked to his left.

A glint caught his eye.

Was there…something in the water?

If you gave it a glance, you would think it was nothing but the waves twinkling back Agni’s brilliance.

But if you squinted…

He shot up to his feet and rushed towards the edge, ramblings of confusion gathering about the crowd, “Zuko! Are you-?”

“Oji! There’s a man at Starboard! Tell the helmsman to head East, now!”

Zuko wasn’t a planner—but who in their right mind would’ve calculated this?

Not even Azula, with all her cunning and precision, would’ve predicted this…this…

It’s a girl, Zuko. He reminded himself, no matter how much of an anomaly she may seem.

“Is her hair…blue?” He could practically hear his deckhand’s jaw hit the floor.

“I’ve heard rumors of the Water Tribe being a mystical bunch! Perhaps she is one of the fabled merfolk.”

“She looks too Earth to be from the Water Tribes.”

“Perhaps she’s spirit-touched,” his uncle chimed in.

Zuko couldn’t help but roll his eyes—Of course, they believe in this sort of stuff.

“No no…look at the roots of her hair—they’re black as midnight.”

“Her skin is dark and covered in sunspots. Was she a farmer?”

"But, that clip in her hair! It shone so brightly in the sun it might as well be a signal. Could it be made of real gold--perhaps she's a thief! A runaway?"

The prince scoffed, “I can’t believe it took that long to think of a reasonable prediction.”

He remembered how that butterfly clip reflected rays worth the light of a thousand candles, how that glint in her hair was the one thing flashing back at him, smiling. 

Lifeboats come with whistles and mirrors for that exact reason, Zuko realized, Whistles carry further than screams, and reflective light carries further than an arm wave. It's like a day flare...

Either she was insightful...or incredibly fortunate.

Zuko wouldn't be surprised either way.

“But remember, Zuko-ouji, this isn’t a reasonable outcome. Be open to the possibilities of impossibilities.”

“Iroh-san is right. I mean—for a farmhand, how is she wearing so little? And how is the fabric so durable?”

And thus, the spiral of conspiracies continued.

“She has a mole in the shape of a heart, right under her eye. Could it—Dear Agni, is that a tattoo?!”

"I must admit...I'm unfamiliar with any groups that correlate with the heart mark," Iroh's hand stroked his beard. Zuko could see those rusty, old gears turning in his head; intrigued and unintimidated.

"Her hair is so...short. I thought the Earth Kingdom favored their hair as well!"

"They do...maybe she's exiled?"

"Maybe she did it herself?"

As they conspired, Zuko's eyes gravitated towards the curious knapsack--its straps were worn and discolored, but he had to admit, the seam work and stitching were phenomenal enough to stay together and maintain shape. The beige and pink polka dots, however, didn't seem to lean toward any distinct group or tribe. 

And it came with flexible metalwork to keep it shut?

How did it even work?

His hand approached the sack, “What kind of bag is this?”

"Hey hey, put that down!" Doctor Dong Yan hissed, hands careful but eyes sharp and promising, "At least wait until she's awake before you snoop—obviously she can't hurt anyone in this state."

"It does raise the question," All eyes were on the Dragon of the West, hands still stroking his beard, "with all the items found on her person and...the perplexity of the situation—I think one thing is quite clear..."

"Oiji?"

"...She seems to be running from something. Though the question lies in why."

Silence reigned in its uncomfortable rule. Her hair was a conundrum, her nation unknown, her clothes so alien and revealing (Zuko forced his eyes to look away) that they didn't know where to place her. But her face; if you looked past the heavy, bleeding eyeliner and smeared lipstick, she was so obviously Earth Kingdom that it was jarring.

So that only left one thought up in the air, and Agni Zuko knew everyone was thinking it: her lack of clothes, her hair cut short like a woman in disgrace, and Zuko could see old scars on her arms and legs (and he knew what burn marks looked like).

He remembered wandering around the port of Yunshipan, scar was a white bandage that reeked of medicine.

He remembered putting his hunt for the Avatar aside for curiosity's sake.

He remembered entering a place so dark and hazy, the air smelling of booze and herbs that clouded your judgment.

Beyond the haze, he remembered a girl, so young and so sad, forced to dance and forced to smile.

He left with a taste of bile in his mouth.

He still wondered why men kept flocking in.

Who wouldn't run from a place like that?

“I think,” Doctor Dong Yan’s hand tightened around the bottle of disinfecting cream—already half-empty, “that you should let me do my job! If you won’t help me, I would suggest leaving before the patient dies!”

The metal door was shut, its creaks vibrating through the iron hull.

Its echoes were the only things that stood between the crew for those excruciating grains of silence.

A question, however, was posed.

What do they do now?

Their eyes wandered towards the prince, his scowl leaving wrinkles worth twice his age.

“Zuko-ouji,” his uncle stepped forward, “What’s your plan?”

The plan? He could hear his heart beating in his ears.

Zuko wasn’t a planner.

“I—" he paused, hands clammy and feet fidgety.

What’s your goal, Zuko?

To find the Avatar, he didn’t even know why that was a question.

Keep going! Was his impulse—to pursue the Southern Air Temple within a week’s time.

But this girl.

She could be a farmhand in the Earth Kingdom.

She could have a family back home.

She could be lost on the open sea, miles away from her family.

Maybe she has a father waiting for her.

It left a sour taste in his mouth.

If you keep going, Zuko, what if the unknown girl dies?

Agni, he didn’t even know her name.

What’s your goal, Zuko?

And how will you go about it?

“…Boatswain Mieko,” he could see her shadowy figure stiffen in his left eye, “…did you check our supplies, recently?”

“Yes, Zuko-buchou."

“How much will our food and fuel last?”

“Food will last around two weeks before being spoiled. Fuel—well, because of such a hurried rescue we sacrificed a couple of days’ worth of coal. I was honestly surprised you could even see her that far.”

“So how long will our coal supplies last?”

“Around a week and a half.”

It would’ve taken us a week to get to Southern Air Temple and a couple of days from there to the nearest, non-hostile Earth port.

We’re cutting it too close.

“…We set course to Yimen port.”

“Yimen port? But what about the temple?”

“We have an injured Yamada Hanako on board and we’re running low on supplies—as—well, my responsibility as captain and your Prince, I command us to turn this ship around for everyone’s safety!”

“And after that, Oi?” His uncle had the biggest grin he’d ever seen, an expectant look in his eye.

Well, what does he want me to say? At least with chichi-ue, he made his expectations very apparent.

Zuko swallowed, “Well uh—I guess we’ll wait until the girl is well enough to talk? Then, we’ll decide what to do with her once we have enough information. If it’ll take time, so be it.”

All eyes were on him.

Unblinking.

Unflinching.

Disbelieving.

Oh, for crying out loud—

“You’re dismissed! Go, go!” The group scurried to their positions, but his uncle—

He put a firm hand on his shoulder, “An excellent plan, oi.”

“Oji, that was barely a plan.”

“When I was a different man, some of my best sieges had the simplest of plans. Sometimes, the basics are the most powerful.”

Zuko had enough proverbs for the day—his boots stomping against the hollow floors made that message clear.

But a smile threatened to tear through his scowl.

Chapter Text

When Nora was one, her first word was “Baba.”

Her father didn’t care if it was just a babble of words or his ears were muffled by fatigue, he jumped to his feet with the biggest grin he could muster on that soot-stained face.

He felt blessed and fortunate to be graced with this opportunity.

Her father worked double digits a day to keep food on the table, sacrificing sleep and food so his two greatest delights could consume it for him. To simply be there in those small windows of moments was a blessing enough. For him to be her word? It was a dream.

But what struck him the most was that her first word was Chinese: Baba for father, Baba for him. 

When Nora was eight, they settled in a small town.

Medium in population—small in mind.

Her clothes had symbols and stitches of her mother tongue that raised the brows of adults passing by. The curve to Nora’s eyes, sun-kissed skin, and dark hair made her stand out like a sore thumb—where fair was pure and innocent. The food her father cooked for her was too strange and foul for their liking—children cleared the way to avoid the smell of fish and oyster sauce.

She was too foreign.

Too oriental.

When Nora left for school the next day, she left her lunch at home without a word.

The language was shoved to the back of her mind.

And there it sat, collecting dust—soon to be forgotten.

She learned to adapt and she learned to forget.

Nora only remembered the certainty of death.

She remembered laying on the rocking raft: her hair crusted by salt and sweat, headache splintering more than the wooden surface, sunburns rough and stinging, like a thousand suns and a thousand more nipping at her skin.

Her lips, crusted but sticky with balm, let a groan escape—for that’s all she could muster.

A groan of pain.

A groan of confusion.

A groan of life and consciousness as she started to stir.

Nora remembered when her father smeared Vaseline and Aloe Vera on her dry skin and sunburns—the sticky, plastic sensation of a thick gel wrapping around the bleeding, peeling wound.

She recognized it the moment she gained consciousness—and by God, she felt it everywhere: her arms, her legs, her feet, her face, her fucking mouth. She wanted to keel over and spit it out, wash her mouth with the very salt water that blessed those cursed seas.

Get it out, get it—

Sharp pains immediately went up her back, the skin stretching and prickling like spikes curling at the spine. Her eyes struggled to fight against the newfound light.

But a hand—strong and firm—kept her from collapsing back on the mattress (mattress? When did this get here?). Her groans left an uncomfortable rumble in her throat like a sputtering engine: crusty and failing.

“Aiya, xiao xin!” Nora’s heart was racing with each escalating ounce of pain, the world felt too bright and saturated, “Wo qu gei ni na shui—mingbai ma?”

A breath—labored and sharp.

What?

Xiao xin, her father used to say: a phrase she could remember as clearly as the days she scratched her knees and burned her skin. He said it so many times that her mind refused to forget.

But the rest? Too quick to comprehend, only bits and pieces were processed while the rest were thrown to the side.

Shui? Water?

Nora almost jumped at the hard edge wedged between her lips, a lukewarm liquid slithering onto her rubbery tongue. She choked and sputtered, the droplets splattering onto her face and spilling on her lap, the liquid (Oh...water) seeping through the scarlet fabric—whose clothes are these?

“Xiao xin!”  The voice was firm. Nora's eyes adjusted to the light and tears welled up in her eyes, bits and pieces of the woman holding her up and patting her back started to form together:

Her hair’s wise gray stood out beyond the midnight black, held up in a knot and kept together with a wooden pin. Her features were soft but hardened by frown lines and wrinkles on her forehead. The faded crow's feet at the corners of her eyes teased an age of laughter long ago.

And those eyes…

As gold as the sunset.

Must be a trick of the light.

A metallic groan reverberated throughout the room, the squeal of a heavy door coerced into using its hinges. Two heavy clanks followed the door's iron song—was the room made of metal?  The woman’s brilliant eyes snapped towards the sound; Nora’s body curled up from the wracking and the cracking.

She swore her muscles cracked in three different places.

“Sango-San, koko de nani o shite iru no? Kanja wa mada kaifuku-chudesu!”

“Kanojo wa okite iru!” His voice sounded hollow, like someone speaking into a bucket. Was he wearing a helmet?

“Anata ga saranainara, watashi wa anata o kizutsukemasu.” Her voice lowered to a growl. From the corner of the room, Nora could see the poor man’s shadow stiffen near the entrance; shoulders pulled back, arms held tight, chin pulled up—she didn’t need to know their language to sense his fear. Is that...Japanese? She chewed the inside of her rubbery lip, Did I...get teleported to the other side of the world?

Maybe you got drugged and kidnapped, and the ship that carried you crashed.

Nora's face soured, How is this theory more outrageous than the ones at sea?

But how much more outrageous could the situation get?

The golden-eyed woman, though keeping a steady eye on the corner of the room, continued her work—bandages she didn't even realize were there were replaced, water was offered in intervals, and pillows were positioned and rearranged. But despite it all, the woman's eyes never left that small corner of the room, the soldier's shadow slowly fading away.

What is an armored man doing here, being threatened by an elderly doctor?

Nora slowly turned to catch a glance to satisfy her curiosity.

Fuck, I recognize it.

His garb was a traditional, Japanese set of dark scarlet armor, black padding to add shoulder to the silhouette, helmet covering the entire head and face with a swoop of red and a white mask, more akin to a skull than anything else.

Nora’s mind went to the wolf helmet found at Shipwreck Blue—how familiar it was.

She remembered putting that thought aside but it never quite left.

She remembered the metal ship pulling into view.

She remembered the boy—the fucking boy, it should’ve been a giveaway—with the red, angry scar and the ponytail.

She remembered his name.

No…no…there’s no fucking way.

But what other explanation is there?

I don’t know! This has got to be a joke. Maybe they’re hardcore fans of the show or something like…

Like Gege Kong?

Maybe it’s just a huge coincidence! Armor like that still exists now, right? It’s just…all really well made.

And to her left, behind the golden-eyed doctor:

Was a red banner with black flames.

It was a dead giveaway, a signal, a literal red flag. The banner waved and glowed in the lantern's mocking, flickering flame, the black tendrils of the insignia curled with each curve and crevice the fabric made.

No, no, no!

“Nushi, ni bing ma?” She jerked her shoulder away from the woman’s touch, heart pounding furiously. A rush of adrenaline shot through her body, and she swore she could feel the blankets shake from her pulse. She didn’t believe it—she couldn’t.

Calm down, Nora. Think this through!

But none of this was in the realm of comprehension.

“This is…this is some joke, right?” Her voice was still a sputter, but it managed a wheezing laugh; she couldn’t help it. There must be a reasonable explanation for this! Teleportation? Sure. But dimension hopping isn’t valid in the slightest. Here…the doctor is a woman of logic, obviously, so you’ll get the answers you need! 

"U-Um...you do understand me, right?"

The doctor narrowed her golden (golden!) eyes. The look Nora sent made her hesitate; it was so expectant, so hopeful, “…shenme?”

“K-Kanojo wa nan to itta n-nondeshou ka?” The man in the helmet, despite the skull-shaped gear, stammered a laugh.

Almost of disbelief.

She almost couldn’t believe it herself.

The doctor shot him a sharp look and the silence was loud and unbearable. Nora almost preferred his sputtering laughs, “Nushi, qing ni chong fu yi bian hao ma?”

“Please I-I don’t know what’s going on!” The world was starting to spin. Her golden eyes looked so lost and clueless. It almost hurt as much as her aching body.

No... you have to try to speak with them, Nora. You gotta try.

And thus, she stepped into the old, dusty corner of her mind; a place left neglected and forgotten.

“W-Wo bu mingbai.” She stumbled through what she remembered, what she could muster. Fuck, are the tones right? “Bu mingbai!”

“Ni weishenme bu mingbai?” The woman’s tone started to waver with worry. She reached out to touch her—but as soon as the gesture was made, the doctor reeled back, lips pursed at Nora’s caution.

“Wo bu shuo—u-um—” fuck, her mind was drawing a blank, “Zhong wen. Wo bu shuo Zhongwen.”

I don’t understand, she said.

I don’t speak Chinese, she fumbled to say.

I left that language long ago, she left it unsaid.

Then…

Nothing.

They didn’t say or do anything for five seconds longer than she wanted.

Nora’s legs were aching, her mind was racing, her heart was pounding, and her spirit pleading that they understood a lick of what she said. But even if they did…

What do you expect them to do? A voice inside her scoffed.

What are you going to do? The other challenged her.

She wanted to cry, she wanted to curl up in a ball, she wanted to wake up and realize that this was just a dream, Nora, a figment of your imagination! 

She wanted everything to make sense again.

What are you going to do? 

The door was wide open, the soldier was edging closer, the cup was on the table, water still inside, and she was stuck here doing nothing.

No... no... I know what you're thinking, Nora, stop it!

The thought came too late.

Doctor Dong Yan recognized fear, and this girl was covered in it: Pupils dilated. Chest heaved. Hands were shaking. Her forehead dripped with sweat, little droplets that ran down the sides of her head.

Despite what the crew often thought, she was a woman who cared.

She never had children—never had the time to settle down in the first place—but she had that instinct. She wanted to reassure her, but every word seemed to send her into a frenzy. She wanted to hold her shoulder firm but not tight, yet she made her discomfort quite clear.

And how uneducated is this girl to be unfamiliar with the Common Earth tongue?

The girl's arm knocked over the wooden cup, contents spilling to the floor, blue (blue!) locks bouncing about her head, worriedly glancing between the puddle and Dong Yan.

An accident.

She was sure of it—she was unconscious for a week and it wasn't uncommon for recovering patients to suffer confusion and coordination issues.

Dong Yan stood up with her lips pursed and her back turned towards the bed. The shelf of supplies sat in its small corner. She was internally grateful Prince Zuko decided to stop at Yimen Port. 

Otherwise, she would've gone through her reserves with this girl.

Thank Agni, Zuko made me used to the smell of burn cream.

She reached up towards the shelf.

It would've taken five seconds to get those towels.

"Miss, wait-!"

"Nushi, ting-!"

Nora's feet pounded against the metal floor; the red blanket crumpled up in her hand. The soldier, faceless and uncertain, reached out with a bare hand—

She threw the open covers onto his face and ducked under his stumbling body. Who decided to give helmets that much vision—?

Stop thinking! Keep running!

She could feel her limbs shaking but she kept pressing on.

Sprinting form, Nora, Sprinting form!

Her head dipped forward, her feet bruising with each heavy footfall against this shitty floor, her knees high and arms spanning the length of her body.

Steady breaths, steady breaths.

Fuck, I’m out of shape—

Find the exit!

No, too risky!

Heads popped out of their respective doors—helmeted and uncovered alike.

She could hear voices and footfalls following behind.

They started to fade—the only thing keeping them on her trail were the echoes of her solid steps.

Keep your feet flat! she could hear her coach's demands.

Find a place to hide, find a place to hide—

You should’ve brought your shoes!

You should’ve brought your bag—!

Steady breaths, steady breaths.

Badum.

Badum.

Badum

“Kanojo wa kono michi o iku!”

Shit shit shit shit—!

She turned a corner.

What kind of fucking labyrinth is this place?!

Her mind was racing a mile a minute and her body might as well be twice as fast.

She could hear them edging closer.

But Nora didn’t know when to slow down.

Badum.

Badum.

Badum.

She turned another corner—

Steady Breaths.

And saw him a little too late.

Her eyes went wide.

His scar was the first thing she saw.

"Nani-?"

But his wide, golden eyes were the last frame in her mind before the collision.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Zuko had a schedule:

1. Wake up to his inner fire flickering to the rising sun.
2. Light the candles and join his uncle for morning meditation.
3. Firebending katas on the deck under Iroh’s tutelage.
4. Eat with the rest of the crew once everyone was awake (it wasn’t his fault their cook was a non-bender).

He found that routine two years ago, a year into his banishment. A routine, he found, kept a sense of order and normalcy—as if he was back at the palace, his father’s stern gaze and expectations keeping him in check.

The palace was like clockwork.

This ship?

This journey?

The crew had their daily duties to maintain the hull, Zuko was the captain with the goal made clear. It was his only source of direction, it seemed, but without any leads, what did that leave him to do the rest of the day? When the scar was nothing but a bandage, he slept more than he bargained for and skipped meals from his frustration.

The pressure to keep moving was fueled by nothing more than his last resolve.

The palace was like clockwork, but the ship was like steamwork; pushed on by the fuel of brimstone and fire, the energy turning into nothing but smoke. At least with clockwork, the gears kept turning and all fell into place, but steam was a constant push—and Zuko was all too familiar with that motion.

He would never tell his crew why his routine was so important—only his uncle had the luxury to know.

They knew better than to disrupt the flow of his mornings, anyway.

They’ve seen how low his moods would go and how high his temper could flare.

However, that faithful morning Zuko awoke, and his inner flame danced under the morning rays. The night’s rest had left him filled with an uncharacteristic amount of energy, and the bed sighed with each stretch of rejuvenation.’

He furrowed his brows—knowing my luck my day might crash right into my face, he considered, taking the red ribbon and wrapping it around his tuft of hair.

Even the ribbon wrapped just right—tight enough to maintain his ponytail’s shape but curving and maintaining enough elasticity to prevent strain on his scalp, huh.

He walked to the closet, clothes smooth from wrinkles and fresh from the weekly wash.

The candles with wicks black from use and wax melted from flame, but none of the wax had caused a mess overnight.

Oji is probably waiting.

Zuko’s breath had followed the candle’s that very morning, his chi commanding the very flame with ease and control. His legs crossed and comfortable, his head held high and chin raised, the air flowing through him rather than around him.

The posture was the result of years of practice, but the motion felt effortless this morning compared to the mornings before.

His uncle’s breath had joined in tandem, and never had he ever felt so calm…

Undisturbed…

In control.

Each inhalation fueled his chi, feeling his ribs expand with each ounce of air. The strain was controlled, the flame would dim with each stretch of his diaphragm.

Then, the exhale—the strain releasing—

Tap tap tap tap.

Release, his uncle had once said, not collapsing. Control the air—

Tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap.

—and don’t let the flame run wild—

“She’s gone this way!”

Zuko’s eyes shot open, and his scowl deepened in the candlelight, flaring with each spark of rage, “What are those fools up to, now?!”

Tap tap tap tap.

“How is she so fast?!”

What in Agni’s name are they talking about?

“Zuko-ouji, perhaps it would be best to let me check—”

But the prince had a schedule—and he was gone before Iroh could open his eyes.

He knew the morning was going too well.

What are these fools up to, this time? Zuko wasn’t an idiot—his crew had the tendency to laze when he wasn’t around, the unprofessionalism worsening with the passing days. Yes, he’s seen how much their disdain grew despite their efforts to put up a front (no matter how minimal those efforts were. Seriously, Zuko was able to see through it).

But to directly go against the flow of their previous days? To disrupt his mornings after they had learned their lesson before? To goof off like children playing on the streets? Even they were more civilized than that.

But what kept them running?

Seriously, I’ve never heard them run this much.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Who—?

“What is—?”

He turned the corner…

And he saw a blur of blue hair before the crash.

He fell to the floor with a newfound weight on his chest, air knocked out of his lungs. He groaned a dry and disoriented groan. The serene and calm that once soothed his chi first thing in the morning was choked out with the tumble. The assailant’s forehead had smacked right onto his lip, clattering against his teeth—he was sure he could taste blood.

That idiot—was the first thought he could muster.

That fool—his groans grew into scowls.

I’ll kick them off this ship if I have to!

The morning just started—and it was already going to ashes.

His anger started to flare, lanterns growing brighter with each pulse of anger, “Get off of me!” I can’t believe they were qualified for the jobs they were given!

Limbs scrambled in the air.

They should be grateful! It’s an honor to serve under a prince!

They pushed themselves up, using his face (of all things, the face) as the place to position their hand.

And he could feel them push themselves up, unfortunately.

What kind of idiot—?

His hands grabbed the shoulders of the thorn on his Agni-forsaken side—

The lantern flames stifled.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

She wriggled uncomfortably in his grasp and under his startled eye, blue locks flying frantically about. Her skin was littered with little sunspots and shining in creams, a mark in the shape of a heart on one cheek, and her eyes…

Brown, though bright in the lantern flames. He couldn't find Agni's gift hidden in the color, not even a flicker—a non-bender, contrary to the crew’s theories.

“It’s you…” His eyes narrowed, “When did you wake up?”

And how are my soldiers losing this girl in the hallways? I caught her by chance, The thought made him sour. She wasn’t awake yesterday, did she just wake up this morning?

He’d have to confide with his uncle about his crew’s training—what were their hopes in catching the Avatar if the crew was outrun by a peasant girl?

She didn’t say a thing. The girl’s eyes, though bright, didn’t convey any reaction to his words—just alarm for speaking. Her body shook with each heartbeat and she wouldn’t stop thrashing…

“Well? Answer me, peasant!”

She grimaced, his sharp tone cutting through the air.

What—?

Oh.

Zuko didn't realize how close they were when he yelled.

This is...awkward.

He could see his reflection in her eyes and how the blue strands framed her face, uneven in the tones, oddly enough, but painted like the shore itself.

Under a fallen strand, a scar so faint and fine above her eyebrow, highlighted by flickering flames eating away at the lantern candle.

Her lashes formed a dark shadow, long and shining from the creams she wore.

So many specs of sun-touched blemishes littered her skin, trailing from her face down to the skin underneath the borrowed shirt.

But his eyes stayed on her face: a mystery to figure out, a question to answer, a puzzle to solve.

And maybe if he looked enough…he could find the solutions.

He had to admit, she wasn't ugly—

—Dear Agni, what am I doing?

He immediately let go, hoping the girl wouldn't notice the heat rushing to his face, and she definitely caught him staring. He pushed himself backward, away from this...this enigma.

The girl let out a breath.

He cleared his throat, wanting so desperately to fill in the uncomfortable silence—where is my crew, for Agni's sake—?

The discomfort left her eyes.

But the tension never lasted.

The last girl I talked to was Azula, and that was three years ago.

Shut up, Zuko, you’re the Prince of the Fire Nation. You can speak to a girl.

The girl still didn’t say anything—can she even talk?

But her eyes said a thousand things, and he couldn’t decipher one of them.

“Well, uh—"

She shot to her feet and stumbled into a sprint.

And Zuko sat still for a minute too long, watching the lantern light shine on her retreating figure.

It was like lightning, He supposed, a cold fire streaking through the night sky.

What the monkey feathers did I just say?

The ship has the first girl his age and he turns into a fool.

A fool who recites poetry.

A fool who let her get away—

I can't possibly be this inept.

He groaned, running a tired hand over his face.

What am I thinking?

What am I doing?

What was that Zuko?  

He shot up to his feet, now aware of the blood staining his bottom lip, the metallic taste dripping on his tongue.

Zuko paused.

Zuko considered.

Zuko pushed the memory out of his mind as hard as he could, but its presence still lingered.

I hate being sixteen.

The girl didn’t get too far.

Either the crash in the hallway had given them time to catch up, or she had absolutely no idea where she was going.

Dong Yan was there with a face fuming with anger, followed by Sango in his gear and the rest of the crew in a flustered flock: some only had their do on with no kabuto adorning their heads, some had no do on their chests with only a kabuto, some were not wearing any of their armor.

Even the cook was awake, sleepwear and all.

“So, you’re trying to tell me, Sango,” Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose—the morning was no time for such a mess, “Dong Yan’s patient—”

“— Well, with all due respect—”

“—who she said was incredibly feverish—”

“—the thing is—”

“—no, no, no, you listen to me, Sango. Just listen because let’s be honest, it sounds absolutely ridiculous,” No noise escaped Sango’s do and his shoulders raised in tension. Zuko’s anger, though low, was volatile to lash, “a teenage girl who Dong Yan said was feverish for the past five days, hasn’t moved or even walked in those five days, and had been shipwrecked prior to those five days managed to get past a—well, are you even a graduate from the Sozin Military Academy?”

Sango said nothing, the metal kabuto clanking as he nervously glanced between Zuko and the blue-haired girl, frown on her face and knees to her chest. Dong Yan, though refused ropes to bind her wrists, insisted on four guards in the infirmary.

She wasn’t scared of her patients, Zuko knew that firsthand, but anyone none the wiser would’ve thought otherwise—her back hadn’t once turned towards the girl in the bed, the girl was moved to a bed closer to the medicine cabinet and further away from the door, and the sheer amount of guards—

Well, no one questioned Dong Yan’s decision after her little escapade.

“Zuko-buchou,” Sango swallowed, “the girl had caught me off guard—I didn’t expect her to run minutes after she woke up! It must’ve been a trick…first the confusion then the babbling?”

“…Babbling?” So, she’s not mute.

His thoughts started to drift to the hallway, like waves crashing onto the fleeting shore, the same shade as her blue—

"...Zuko-buchou?"

“What do you mean, Sango," he cleared his throat—focus, Zuko, "About the babbling?”

The guard hesitated as if he couldn't find the proper words, “First she started…mumbling? I think. I couldn’t understand a lot of what she said. She said some stuff in Earth, but a lot of it didn’t make any sense.”

“What. Did. She. Say?” 

“Uh…she said she didn’t understand. When we asked her why she said, ‘I won’t speak Middle-Language.’”

Zuko’s mind started to wrack for answers—anything from his studies. Middle language? What region is that from? Iroh had quietly stood next to him, his eyes big and observant; a quiet, deadly contemplation. Zuko had only seen that contemplativeness whenever the Fire Lord or Azula was mentioned.

Iroh’s sharp and curious gaze kept glancing between Sango and the girl, Dong Yan chastising her as she dabbed a reapplication of burn cream.

“Maybe she’s Water?” Zuko furrowed his brows. The only other option was the Fire Nation and an impossibility, an extinct race that never lived to see the war, “Southern Water Tribe numbers have dwindled. I won’t be surprised if her education is little to none.”

He remembered that much from his tutors.

“Zuko-buchou, if that were the case, should we head straight for the South Pole?”

We could, the prince had considered, It’s not too far from the Southern Temple, either.

But if she isn’t from the South Pole?

Then the other possibility would probably be the Northern Tribe.

The other side of the world—too much of a risk, too much of a chance.

But that did raise the question…

How are they supposed to know where she’s from? It took them three years to travel to as many places as they have, and the whole map hasn’t yet been explored.

Map…

“Have you tried giving her a map? Maybe she could try pointing to it and we could get a good idea where she’s from.”

“…We…could try that, Zuko-buchou.”

“Good. Get her something to write with. Maybe her writing could be comprehensible.” Sango’s head dipped for a curt bow before rushing out of the room. Zuko groaned, head leaning against the metal walls—the morning I have, today.

“Zuko-ouji,” his head lolled to his left, his uncle reaching up to press a wet cloth against the bleeding lip.

He worries too much—I almost forgot about the lip.

“Oji…”

“Remember what Dong Yan-san said, hm? It’s still impressive that she managed to cause this much chaos in ten minutes.” Iroh chuckled at the thought, but it only made Zuko sour.

“I know, oji. Once we find out where she’s from, we’ll get rid of her. I don’t want a liability on my mission.”

“Liability, Zuko?” Iroh’s lips slowly curled into a grin, teasing in its knowing manner. Zuko rolled his eyes—his uncle, always finding ways to challenge him.

“Oji, she was unconscious for nearly a week.”

“Yes, but that was because she was shipwrecked a week before. Remember, you were the one that saw that raft.”

Zuko struggled to find a rebuttal—he’s not wrong, a side of him dared to say. But pride held his tongue.

The old man let out a sigh, gaze shifting over to the blue-haired girl, “She reminds me of you.”

“Oji? You know nothing about this girl. For the stunt she pulled today, she might as well be a criminal.”

“Perhaps,” Zuko sputtered at his uncle’s admittance, but Iroh continued, “but I remember another who woke up on this ship, covered in burn cream.”

Oh no…

He remembered those bandaged months, waking up in a fit of fear—the fabric falling in the wind, fluttering to the floor as the gong rang.

The shadow of his father loomed over him like a bad omen. His hand reaching out to cradle his face, the gentle touch of a parent he oh so longed for—

Then the pain.

And then nothing.

Zuko tore his eyes away from him and the memory, a scowl growing at the edges of his mouth, “Oji—”

“The first thing you did when you woke up was jump to action. Remember when Dong Yan-san held you down to change your bandage?”

“Don’t remind me, oji.” The scowl deepened at each bounce of his uncle’s hearty laugh.

“You were always a stubborn child, Zuko. You were always so restless and always fought until the very end.” His heart-filled laugh descended into remembering chuckles, “and that’s what made you so strong. I fear you forget your strength.”

That just makes you stronger, Zuko.

“I know who I am," the memory of her faded to dust, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Sometimes, even the proudest men need assurance.” Iroh reached up to dab at the split lip, blood slow but ever-present. His lips only showed a ghost of a smile.

This time, Zuko let him.

Sango appeared a minute later, with a wooden ink and brush case, empty scrolls, and a map in hand.

Finally, he sighed, we can end this madness. Maybe I can go back to meditation. Agni knows my routine’s screwed up enough.

“You have got to be kidding me,”

He knew he was unlucky. But somehow, life found ways to make things seem improbable.

Maybe the spirits are real and they’re testing me, toying with me. “Oh look at the banished Prince!” He could imagine them, comfortable in their throne of clouds and fog, “A Firebender born on the winter solstice. What a hoot! Let’s give him a lost girl who doesn’t speak their language, doesn’t write their language, and doesn’t recognize the world map!”

He could feel his rage fueling the lantern flame, the room growing hotter with each passing second, “You don’t know?!” Her lips curved into a wary smile, apologetic and trying. The grin, however, did very little to quell the flames.

And she won’t be able to answer any questions about the Avatar, either.

Her smile only aggravated his glower.

Dong Yan shook her head, massaging the wrinkles on her forehead, “Zuko, she won’t understand a good chunk of what you’re saying, but anger’s a very universal emotion.”

“But…But Dong Yan! What is this? When we gave her the brush, she wrote squiggles that didn’t correspond with any recognizable language. They don’t even look anything like the traditional characters from the time of the Lion Turtles, so she could just be making something up at this point.

“And when we tried to question her, she just drew a stick figure shrugging their shoulders right there—oji, that’s not funny! The only word she seems to know well is ‘no’ and it doesn’t help when she refuses to point at the map. She must be messing with us; this has to be some elaborate trick.”

“Zuko-ouji,” His uncle, ever so patient and still ever so contemplative, “I truly think the girl is trying to make light of a…complicated situation.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be so complicated if she could just speak to us like normal…” Zuko murmured. The guards, though silent, gave each other a glance—concerned and confused.

The blue-haired girl shook her head and started to ramble once more. Her mouth seemingly moving as fast as a cheetackelope’s gait, hard r’s that bundled up in the back of her tongue (how does anyone talk like that?), so many sharp consonants that bled together. She could’ve been saying anything and no one in the room would’ve caught it.

Her tongue was so foreign, some couldn’t help but listen.

“We can’t understand a single thing you’re saying!” The teen threw his hands up in the air and stomped away, lantern light flaring with each ragged breath. This is insane! We can’t leave her anywhere now.

Deep breaths, Zuko, he could hear his uncle say three years ago, a hand on his back and a gaze so warm that cold, cold day. He remembered his body shaking, pulse racing, and world spinning when he read that letter. He remembered the pain and the smell of medicine filling the room, and how odd the clean air smelled once he left.

It was this very infirmary he woke in.

I need to get out of this damn room.

“If I may interrupt,” Zuko’s eyes drifted away from the door and over his shoulder, his uncle’s gaze curious and calculating, “I could try talking to her.”

“What?” Eyes turned towards the man. Even the girl had her gaze situated on the retired general, “Oji, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m a…well-traveled man, oi.” He reassured—Like that means anything, Zuko rolled his eyes, “I might be able to say enough to gather information.”

“But this isn’t something you can charm out of her,” He had seen his fair share of street vendors wooed by his uncle’s flattery. Their discounts were the only reason The Wani had as much money as it did, “It’s a completely different language with nonsense as a writing system!”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Yes, he wanted to say, the thought was immediate. Zuko felt his heart weep at the question, which his mouth failed to express. Instead, he stammered, “Well—I—” he cleared his throat, “You’re the Dragon of the West.”

A breath.

Then, the general smiled.

“Of course, Zuko.” He walked back towards the mattress, a knowing look in his eye.

What trick does that old man have up his sleeve?

Nora studied the figure coming her way: Uncle Iroh, she faintly remembered.

His beard, though detailed and littered with stray grays, kept that defined, angular shape as it did in the show. His eyes could’ve been mistaken for a light brown if not for the flaring lantern light (Seriously, someone open a window in here)—his gentle smile and patient resolve had softened what could’ve been a glimmering gold.

If her brother were here, Gege Kong could tell her Iroh’s entire backstory.

The only thing she could recall was how big her smile grew with each scene he walked into.

He was one of the only characters she could distinctly remember—her eight-year-old heart leaped for joy whenever he stumbled on the screen with a cup of tea and a kind gaze. It wasn’t his design that she could remember (His beard and topknot didn’t stand out as much as Zuko’s scar), but the warmth that he brought.

And Nora recognized his warmth.

But what does he think he’ll do? It’s not like anyone else had a better chance of communicating. Their little game of Pictionary didn’t do a thing, either (She thought the stick figures were kind of funny, though).

He slowly knelt to her bedside, hands on his knees and head dipped down for greeting, “Ni hao.”

Alright, you know this one, Nora. Her head dipped in return, “Ni hao.”

“Wa-to i-sa na-mu?”

She furrowed her brows, “Shenme?”

Iroh shook his head, hands slightly raising above his knees for the emphasis, “Wa-to…i-sa…na-mu?”

What is he saying? It doesn’t sound Chinese, and they think I can only speak Chinese, apparently. She replayed the words in her head:

Wa-to...i-sa…na-mu?

Wa-to i-sa na-mu.

Watoisanamu.

Wat—

Oh.

Oh my God.

She thought she felt the breath ripped out from her, the sweltering room brighter than before—Wait, wait, there’s no way.

“Are you saying…” She hesitated, terrified of the disappointment. Her hands gripped the blanket, eyes growing wide with an escalating pulse, “'What is your name?’”

Iroh’s grin matched Nora’s very own, widening with each passing second, “Ye-su.”

She let in a sharp breath of excitement, hands reaching towards her face. She could barely hear the others mumble and murmur, and not even the old lady tending to her wounds could compete with her heart thrumming in her ears.

“My name? My name—yes!” Get a hold of yourself, “My name is Nora.”

“Nora?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s me.”

“Yu Nora,” His grin gleamed in his eyes, a hand raised to gesture towards her, “Ai Iro.”

“Iroh, right."

"No no," he shook his head, "Iro."

Ee-roh, he had said. I don't know if I can get used to that.

"...Ee-roh." She relayed.

The man in question simply nodded in return. A certain scarred teenager had his jaw on the ground, disbelieving eyes shifting between the two.

“Yu Nora uh…” He started to falter, eyes trailing towards the map strewn on her lap.

He pointed towards one of the illustrations at the corner of the map—caricatures heavily stylized by ink and wide, toothy grins, peering through the clouds and glancing at the unfamiliar continents below.

Almost like gods.

Almost like—

“Am I a…spirit?”

“Tamashi i-sa sa-pi-ri-ta?”

I don’t know, she could feel her internal monologue itching for sarcasm, it’s not like there’s a translator here or anything, “Sure.”

“Nora sa-pi-ri-ta?”

“No, I am human.” The old man tilted his head, “Ah…um…wo shi…ren? Human. Ren.”

She didn’t even know how close that was, but Iroh seemed to understand—thank God.

Zuko seemed to get more restless with every exchange.

And thus, their fun little game continued: a cycle of back and forth of listening and filling in the blanks.

“Yu ho-ma we-ru?”

“My home? I don’t know—uh—wo bu zhi dao.”

“Yu at wa-ta, wai?”

“I don’t know why I was in the water,” The phrase became familiar to Iroh, “A spirit, maybe?” At this point, she was considering the possibility.

“Wa-to is-a sa-pi-ku?”

“I speak English—wo shuo yingwen.”

“Yu na-mu itto Ying-wen?”

“I—uh...I guess?” She found his wording strange but left it to the language barrier.

“Yu hen e?”

“Am I…hungry? E is hungry. I haven’t eaten yet so…”

The questions kept coming, one after the other with each one easier to answer. The exchange, though not completely English, wasn’t completely Japanese or Chinese either.

The process was slow—if Iroh didn’t know a word, they would play a game of Pictionary or charades. She would either try to find the word in Chinese for confirmation or try to find a different way to word it in English.

The barrier, though weaker with him, was still ever present.

It didn’t help that her linguistic knowledge had already started to dim.

But Nora was patient—and she had never felt happier.

Finally, something familiar.

Zuko’s chopsticks felt heavy in his hands, and he was sure his rice was getting cold.

The tray Sango had brought to the room had laid right next to the girl’s futon, her happily taking the bowl of roasted duck and steamed cat-salmon.

As much as his stomach growled and his food chilled…

This exchange, this little game that his uncle and this mystery girl had learned to play for the past hour and a half? It was hard to look away—he had never seen someone express their happiness in a tongue like this. His tongue started to ache at the rows of bundled r’s.

His uncle knelt his head down, his bow akin to his greeting bow, “Sayonara Nora.”

She studied his form and mirrored it—Agni that’s an awful bow— “Sayonara Iro.” Her words, though familiar, were still laced with that foreign tongue.

His uncle rose to his feet, face bright and fulfilled.

Zuko could feel his shoulders square, head held high as Iroh came his way, “Well?”

“The girl’s name is Nora,” his eyes twinkled, “She is lost and she doesn’t know how she has gotten here or in the ocean. She assumes it’s a spirit.”

“That’s it?! All this time and she doesn’t know a thing?!”

“Patience, oi. She does enjoy music and loves the roast duck.”

Zuko could feel his internal flame screaming. First, his routine was ruined, then, this girl wakes up and knows little to no words of their language, and she apparently is from nowhere.

It was aggravating, to say the least.

They skipped morning katas for breakfast, too!

“So, you learned nothing from this girl.”

Iroh let out a chuckle, ushering his nephew out of the room with a gentle hand, “Nora has taught me that she is from a city beyond the map we have, she has a father and a brother back home, and she doesn’t know how to get back.”

They couldn’t just drop her off at an Earth Kingdom port.

Of course, they couldn’t.

“She also taught me some new words while we spoke! I am looking forward to what she’ll teach me in her next lesson.”

What?

“Oji, what do you mean next lesson?”

“I have agreed to teach her the common Earth tongue in exchange for her teaching me her language.”

“But oji, that’ll take weeks, months even. We don’t have the time for that on our search for the—” he paused.

No.

No.

Oh, no no no.

“Oi, she says that she enjoys music and loves Eiji-san’s cooking. She’ll be a perfect addition to the crew!”

“Oji!” No no no, this can't be happening!

“Oi,” His uncle tilted his head. Zuko’s fingers twitched and curled into fists, his teeth grinding against one another. He hated when his uncle was so…so patient when all he wanted to do was punch the nearest wall, “sometimes, the best thing we can do is to lend a helping hand. Each stranger we meet in our life is a potential ally. Think about it this way: she managed to outrun your crew after two days of barely any food or water. She’s your age, and I must admit you do need some friends.” Zuko grumbled and mumbled, Iroh still following even after he stomped off.

“And the language she speaks might be beneficial in your hunt for the Avatar!”

A breath.

Then two.

Zuko didn’t face him, but he stood in his place, “Oji? What do you mean?”

“Nora had taught me many things, and she told me that her language to her is called Ying-wen.”

“And?”

“But to me, it doesn’t have a name—you only know it by the ones who speak it. I admit, it’s not a language I know well—” his uncle sounded sheepish, “but it’s a language I’ve become familiar with on my travels.

“The spirits can speak all the languages in the world, but they’ve learned to speak their own—And Nora? I recognized it as the spirit’s tongue the moment she spoke it.”

Spirit's tongue?

The bridge between spirit worlds...

Wait.

“Oji, you don’t mean—”

“Oh but I do, Oi. The Spirits have their own language, and Nora is fluent in it.”

Chapter Text

When Nora was six, she struggled in school.

With money scarce and a city unforgiving, they had to choose—School or food.

At least they had food to fuel the brain and keep her filled till the next day. The best thing her father could buy was a pack of pencils and a notebook whenever the next sale would come around the corner.

But the books?

The art supplies?

The dread when their eyes looked down at her shoes so torn?

“You’re a smart cookie, Xiao Taiyang,” Gege Kong had said one starry night, seeing how she held her bandaged knees close to her chest, “but I guess we have to wait until we have another chance.”

When Nora was nine, she started getting better.

The job her father found was steady enough to afford books and find a place to settle—their time of moving from one place to another: over.

The report card showed rows of “D” and “C”—technically passing.

But her father’s disdain was clear as the summer’s day, “Aiya! This isn’t good! No good at all!”

“Dad!”

“How you expect to get to good colleges when grade D and C, no A or B? How you expect to get good job too, ha?”

“But I’m trying! I really am!”

“Trying not always good enough in job,” and there it was—those tired eyes. He shook his head, glancing over at her brother scribbling away at whatever assignment was due the next day, “Kong! Help your sister, ha?”

She grumbled and murmured under her breath, backpack slumping over one shoulder. Nora could practically feel his gaze, “…I know what you’re going to say,” she sighed, slipping her pink, paper folder out of her gaping backpack, “you’re going to defend Baba, again, say how much of a great guy he is and how I should look up to him.”

He didn’t say a thing.

Somehow, that was even worse.

She looked up from her pencil search, elbow deep in her bag, “…Well? Are you?”

He shrugged, “Eh, you’re probably not gonna listen, anyway.”

“So, what, you’re not going to help me study?”

“Never said that Xiao Taiyang,” he chuckled, shifting his chair closer to hers, “…you know, ba just wants what’s best for us, right?”

“You’re already his little golden child, anyway…” she murmured, flipping through assignments stapled in her folder—as if that would distract her.

He frowned, “…You’re a smart cookie, you know? Baba only wants you to get good grades so you can get a good job.”

“And why does he care?”

“It’s…” he hesitated, “It’s so you…don’t end up like him.”

The pages stopped turning.

“…What?”

“…He came to this country because of you, you know?” His voice was hushed, his eyes wary and fearing the people who could hear, “It was illegal for you to be born at that time, in China. I remember how worried he was before you were born.

“When he came here, he risked it all for you—for us, to give us a better chance. He left his family, his friends—” he swallowed, “he left…ma.”

She froze; no one ever talked about mom.

“We moved so much because he had nothing but us. He just…he just wants what’s best for us, you know?”

“…Gege Kong?”

“Hm?”

“He never told me this.”

“You know him—he’s never great with words.” They didn’t mention the conversation at all through the night, only discussing the questions assigned and misunderstood.

The thought still lingered in her mind.

When Nora was thirteen, she was at the top of her class.

She grinned at her report card glinting in the afternoon light, seeing the way the rows of “A” shot out as a stark contrast to the bright parchment—she could imagine her brother’s matching smile.

Maybe her father would cook her favorite meal.

“Wow, look at you,” the girl next to her laughed—a friend she was fortunate to find, “of course you have straight A’s.”

Nora laughed, a mask to her confusion, “What…What do you mean by that, Sadie?”

“Oh you know,” Sadie’s hand gestured towards the other girl’s face.

Nora froze—the realization dawning a little too close for comfort.

“…Oh.”

“What? That’s a good thing,” She scoffed, “man, I studied hard for that test. I bet you didn’t even try.”

She could’ve told her about the sleepless nights she spent struggling with each subject. She could’ve told her how she went through stacks of flashcards as she saw the sunrise. She could’ve told her how she barely passed classes less than five years ago.

She could’ve yelled and protested and cried—she could’ve simply said "I've tried harder than you could've imagined."

But Nora didn’t say a thing.

She flipped the card over, refusing to see those pesky A’s.

Nora wasn’t trusted alone, and she didn’t blame them; it wasn’t a great first impression.

But this?

The kind, old general reached for the pot, the only language exchanged between them all was the voice of tea being poured and shared.

One pour for Iroh’s cup.

One for Nora’s.

And three more for the guards sitting right beside her.

I’m not really one for tea, she was used to the cold brew of coffee, after all, but she returned his bow, nonetheless. His eyes held such a fierce kindness that she couldn’t help but hold the cup in her hands, feeling the warmth radiating through the porcelain.

She could see the sun streaming through the ship’s windows—a beautiful blue with not a cloud in sight and the faint sound of seagulls singing their squalling tune.

No going outside; Doctor’s orders, remember?

At least, that’s what Iroh had translated for her.

“Hiyake ga naoru made gaishutsu kinshi.” She remembered the woman’s eyes pointed and firm, glancing between each and every one of them with that golden glare, “Wa ka ri ma suka?”

“She se-su no taiyang.” Iroh relayed.

She was lucky to know “Taiyang” as clearly as the current day.

And thus, they were in Iroh’s room—secretly gracious that it was big enough for five.

“So, um…” Nora watched as everyone else brought the cups to their lips, her hands just enjoying its steaming warmth, “How are we supposed to do these lessons? I speak the language; I don’t teach it. Do we have to have a curriculum or something? If we’re going to do a lesson, we should do it right.” She remembered her English teacher’s meticulous schedules. They were updated on the board every week, with different marker colors to fit the season and detention if you changed them.

She remembered the projects assigned months in advance, months meant for preparing or counting down the days till you graduate (She remembered spending a week on her project and the remaining months on others’—per request, of course).

But Nora didn’t have months—she had guilt built up over the course of years.

You had months—no, you had years, a part of her argued, and you wasted them all.

“Yu sa-peaku,” Iroh struggled to find the words, “…ah….kuai.”

Her face soured in thought, digging through that mental, dusty library, Kuai…kuai…do you remember that word?

The general pursed his lips. Nora saw the light flicker in those golden eyes, the same thoughtfulness in the infirmary not too long ago. If she didn’t know any better, his gaze would’ve been enough to make a grown man whimper. If she hadn’t seen his face so eager to learn and talk in a language oh so familiar to her, she would’ve thought twice (maybe even thrice). Nora’s caution was a “blessing curse,” as her father had called it—But she had never thought twice about her family (it became a problem when she never thought twice with her friends, either).

And she couldn’t find herself thinking twice about the old man in front of her.

The old general was still Iroh, and the sharpness faded once a thought lit his eyes and softened its edges— he brought one hand up and shot it through the air—the motion leaving behind a light thwip, “Wat-to yu na-mu itto?”

“Fast?” She guessed, “Quick?”

“Fastu kikku?”

Her face flushed, “No no—just fast.”

He hummed, a hand stroking his beard. She could practically hear the gears in his head turning, “Fastu….Fastu….Yu sa-peaku fastu, Nora.”

“Ah…” Nora furrowed her brows—Seriously, Nora? He clearly doesn’t speak the language very well, “I’m sorry. Dui bu qi.”

“No no no!” He waved his hands in the air, his chest bouncing with every chuckle, “No sa-yu so-ri. Yu sa-peaku Ying-wen gu-da! So, yu sa-peaku fastu. Ai sa-peaku yingwen no gu-da. So, ai sa-peaku yingwen….ah, wat-to yu na-mu itto?”

“Slow?”

“Slo,” He tasted the word on his tongue, “Slo….slo…slo. I sa-peaku itto slo. So no se-su so-ri, yesu?”

“But still, I made a promise—I’ll help you learn,” A fair trade, a language for a language, “I’m still sorry for going fast, I will try to be slower.”

Honestly, I didn’t think it was that fast.

As you said, a part of her argued, he doesn’t speak your language. Take it slow.

Fuck, I have to make a lesson plan, don’t I? I don’t know if I can properly teach a language on the spot—

You’re right! And you’ll have to find a way to confer with his lesson plans—

The sound of his porcelain cup clinking against the table paused her frantic thoughts. “Wa-tu na-mu ah…pengyou?”

“Pengyou?” She tapped the rim of her cup, the tea rippling with each touch, “Friend. Pengyou is friend.”

“Fe-ren.” He smiled, “Fe-ren…Fe-ren…Fe-ren. Itto gu-da to wa-yu-te fo-ru fe-ren, butto no so-ri fo-ru fastu.”

What? But she held her tongue—she could figure it out. Iroh deserved patience for at least trying.

She was honestly surprised she made it this far.

Let’s see… Nora nibbled the inside of her cheek, covered in sores from weeks passed, he used the word “friend,” obviously—he would incorporate new vocabulary. “It’s good to…” something something “for a friend, but no sorry for fast…?”

She remembered sitting at a table not so unfamiliar with her father—he knew English enough to survive, but certain words or phrases were fleeting. She knew the vastness of the language, after all.

“What is piaoliang again, Xiao Taiyang?”

She hummed, leaning back against her chair, “Pretty? Gorgeous? Beautiful? Uh…stunning? Cute? No…no that’s ke-ai.”

“English very different,” Her father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose that one autumn day. He had a word on the tip of his tongue and a whole dictionary of possibilities.

“Dad,” She sighed, “of course it’s different. There’s an entirely different alphabet. Not to mention, the pronunciation and the grammar structures and all the different idioms and nuances—”

“Xiao Taiyang—” He laughed, “—you can learn language in school, but you can’t learn how to speak from teachers.”

“What do you mean?”

“English has many words; do you know why?”

“…Countless wars and colonization?”

“Xiao Taiyang…your time and culture think and speak very fast—sometimes you forget to slow. You patient, but you run mile minute.”

Mile a minute, but she held her tongue—no one dared stop the flow of words when they already came pouring.

“English has many words, many many words—not because colonization or war. No, no, English has many words because here, your words more important than your action. In China, action louder than words.”

She nodded but her understanding was fleeting—she didn’t understand.

She couldn’t.

“…I guess?” The uncertainty laced her voice, and her father was ever so observant.

“Do you know what makes a person really, really successful and rich?” She shrugged, “Not what they say, it’s what they do, ha?”

“And what do they do?”

“They wait.”

The soldiers wore no mask, that day— and she could feel them staring, watching, waiting.

Wait…wait…wait…

“…It’s good to wait for a friend,” Her words were slow. His eager nod was the only confirmation she could get, “But…don’t apologize for going…fast?”

“Appo-lo-ji-zu?” He sounded out every consonant, every crevice of that word, “Appo-lo-ji-zu isu…so-ri?”

“Um…yes—How do I word this—?” She didn’t think she would be here sitting and talking like they did in the infirmary, “To apologize is to say sorry.”

“Daoqian,” What? “Daoqian isa appo-lo-ji-zu.”

“..Daoqian.” She paused, processing the vowels and the way they fell on her tongue, “Dao…qian. Dao…qian. Daoqian.”

“Gu-du. Veri Gu-du.” He reached down for his cup, the steam had faded but he was still content with every sip he took, “Yu tea-cha gu-du.”

Nora raised a brow, “That…was not a lesson. That was a conversation—wo men shuohua, bu…ah…learn.”

“Xue,” He corrected, “Xue isa…len-u. Len-u…len-u…len-u…”

“Still—we were talking. I wasn’t teaching I don’t have a lesson plan in mind.”

“Best-a le-son-a,” He interjected, “no plan-u. Wen kiddo hurt-a, he len-u be safe-u. Wen hurt, no plan-u. Ye-su?”

She remembered tripping on her own feet when she learned to walk. When her knees started to bleed and her eyes filled with tears, she learned to hold her brother’s hand whenever they walked.

The best lessons were not planned, her finger tapped against the porcelain rim, a clink clink clink of her nail against the cup—I’ll still have a lesson plan by tomorrow.

“Xie xie, laoshi.” He bowed, deep and sincere—Thank you, teacher.

But Nora still felt like a child, learning to walk in a world so new.

There was no hand to hold.

Her tea was starting to get cold.

Chapter Text

When Nora was ten, she hated her clothes.

Her shirts had holes from decades passed, but only now had they bothered her—the hand-me-downs used to be something she wore with pride, the “exclusive brand” her father had called them.

The “exclusiveness” was in the Chinese words stitched over one breast and sometimes trailing down the sleeve. They all had one character in common, their family name: Fei.

But the older she grew, the more she saw.

The more she saw, the more she learned—and those rose-tinted lenses she wore her whole life started to gradually fade into a dull filter.

When she begged and pled, her father turned away, shaking his head with those tired…tired eyes and sharp tongue.

The more she insisted, the more he seemed to wallow in dread.

The more he refused, the less she seemed to understand.

“Xiao Taiyang,” her father became softer over the years, but he’s always had that hidden sharpness to him, “Why you want new clothes?”

“Ugh, dad! The kids at school—”

“You have good clothes here! Aiya, if you want their clothes then ask them!”

“No! I want my own clothes!” She cried and whined, “These are ugly!”

“They cover your body from cold. They do what clothes should do.” He shook his head, seeing her stomp and cry and pout, “When you have own money, Xiao Taiyang, you have to know how to spend the money, ha? If I buy you those fancy clothes, we won’t have anything to eat tonight.”

“…Nothing to eat?” Her brows furrowed, “But why?”

“…Americans say time is money,” he never looked more tired than before, “And I want time to be with you and Kong. Understand?”

But she didn’t understand, not right away.

Two nights later, a new dress was folded neatly on her nightstand, the tag still in place.

Nora smiled, slipped the frilly dress on, and showed her family at dinner.

Her father smiled, faint but powerful, as she twirled around, the skirts fluttering in the wind. Her brother clapped and cheered with every spin. He almost forgot about his new medicine—oh how he frowned at those pill bottles shining in the kitchen light.

Once dinner was done, her stomach was full, and her smile was gone. Baba’s plate was empty, she realized.

Nora didn’t ask again.

She understood more than he bargained for.

When the sun dipped below the horizon, Nora’s mind was full and fatigued—fat from a day spent and gone. She swore she could still taste the newfound words; the way they curled and formed and faded into one another, a blend of words she knew, words she heard, and words untold. She swore she felt too tired to think.

It didn’t take long for Nora to sink into the mattress and fall victim to sleep.

The slumber was not so dreamless.

It was vivid and full of life: Every leaf had its dance, every blade of grass had its tune, and every ray of sun poking through those painted clouds had its paths they took and traveled.

She squinted through the foliage, Wait…is that—?

A vending machine overgrown and rusted, forgotten and lost to time.

Nora could almost hear her brother’s footsteps, clumsy and quick as the butterflies fluttered their funny little waltz: “Xiao Taiyang, Xiao Taiyang! I can catch one! Just you wait!” The memory was so crystal and lucid that she could almost touch it.

She remembered just how green this house was, the metal was eaten away by wind and rain. “It’s like castle, ha?” Her father had assured, squeezing her shoulder when disdain reached her face. Remember? A part of her beckoned, just a few blocks over is the lake.

She could hear the splash of water and the sun unforgiving—

“This is that memory, isn’t it?”

The voice.

Airy—like the wind itself.

She whipped around, gravity and weight a fruitless thing as her movements slowed and softened their acuity.

She narrowed her eyes, “You.”

Those same circles that dotted his face, were too symmetrical to be anything but purposeful and meaningful. Those clothes were a stark ordinary to his horns and marks—the colors too neutral to belong to any nation.

That beard—that blasted beard that wrapped around his waist—was too fucking impractical to be anyone else’s.

The only difference was…well—him. He wasn’t that ghostly, red figure looming over the ocean waves, guiding her breathing as she thought they would be her last.

He was solid, and clear — here.

The man (Creature? Spirit? Complete figment of my imagination?) raised his hands in mock surrender, “I can see that you are…upset to see me.”

Nora pursed her lips, scrutinizing every single detail of the figure before her, “…just a little.”

“May I ask why?”

…Let’s be honest, Nora, her internal council collected themselves once more, he saved your life the first night you woke up and taught you how to keep yourself…warm, somehow. He’s weird, but he’s the reason you’re still alive. The members of her mind murmured in agreement, you don’t have to be ecstatic but—

No, a part of her spoke out, remember the night you…fell from the bridge?

Remember what he said?

She didn’t want to remember.

But she couldn’t forget.

She could answer the figure standing right in front of her, and let him hear what she wanted to say.

But Nora held her tongue—not now.

Wait, she could hear her father’s voice.

Think this through, Nora.

“…This is my dream, isn’t it?”

The man raised a brow, one horn raising alongside it, “…I suppose so.”

Right…right it is.

“So,” she cleared her throat, chin raising ever so slightly, “that means I can stop this dream any time I want.”

“…What?”

“I can stop talking to you or looking at you if I close my eyes. It’s like…when you dream, you go through rapid eye movements. The dream often stops when your eyes stop moving—usually achieved by your eye movement stopping in your dream. It’s more likely to happen through lucid dreaming—and studies did show that dream sensations are connected to outside sensations. So, stopping your eyes from moving in a dream, like…uh…closing your eyes would stop the dream entirely.”

I think, she held herself back from adding.

But hey, who knew? AP Psychology wasn’t a bad investment.

“So, why haven’t you closed your eyes?” He challenged. His voice wasn’t quite sharp, but harsh like the whistle of an unyielding wind, “Why haven’t you stopped dreaming, then?”

“…Because,” her arms crossed over her chest, head tilting ever so slightly. Nora’s jaw tensed and clenched—God, it hurts to say this, “I…can’t figure you out.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought you were just a figment of my imagination; maybe a delusion formed by the afflicted mind,” The only times he had ever appeared were on the brink of death, after all, “It made sense, at the time. And I guess it would make sense for my brain to pick and choose you to be the star in the latest, hottest dream.”

“So, what changed?”

What hasn’t?

“…I woke up on a goddamn Fire Nation ship and got a seven-hour Chinese lesson from Uncle Iroh.” She laughed—sharp and sad. Eeroh, she reminded herself, but a habit of mouth not so easily forgotten, “…It was Gege Kong’s favorite show, growing up, you know? He would’ve loved—" she let in a sharp inhale, “—I mean—love. He would…love to be here. At least he knows the language better than I do.”

Baba’s little golden child, a bittersweet thought.

The bearded man didn’t say a word. She would’ve mistaken him for a statue if it weren’t for those observing eyes.

“Look, everything that happened has been the most impossible set of events I’ve ever had,”

Waking up in an ocean, being rescued by a fire nation ship, crashing into Zuko of all people, the list kind of keeps going.

 “I can’t figure out for sure if I’m in a coma—maybe from the…the fall from the bridge. The other options are heaven or hell, and that’s when we start to get into the more spiritual theories based on religion alone.” She started to pace; the long grass tickled at her knees. Nora didn’t even look to see if he understood, “Not to mention, that would require me dying, and I know for sure that I’m not dead—”

“Nora Fei,” She stopped in her tracks. The hesitation wafted through the air, “…Is the reason you haven’t left yet…is because you want to know the truth?”

“I—” She struggled to find the words, but all she found were excuses. Her shoulders slumped, “.... maybe.”

“You—alright, so this is how it’ll be,” He grumbled, words too quiet and whistled to understand, “How about we make a deal?”

A deal? Her head tilted towards his spotted face, “If you would let me explain the truth, will you promise to listen until the very end and listen to what I have to say? Will you promise to not wake up until the very end?”

She eyed his horns and the patterns adorning his skin, “…I’m not…making a deal with the devil or anything, am I? This isn’t a ‘Monkey’s Paw’ sort of deal?”

“I don’t… know what a Monkey’s Paw is,” He admitted, “But I promise there’s no trickery involved. I’m not going to keep you trapped in your mind.”

“Are you going to possess me? Harm me—? How do I know you won’t lie?”

“I won’t do anything of the sort! It’ll all be explained once you give me a chance!” The frustration seemed to be quite evident, bubbling near the surface, “And trust me, even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t.”

And to this, Nora was taken aback—of all the different possible answers, this wasn’t at the top of her list.

It wasn’t even close.

“…What do you mean?”

“No, no—first, you must promise that you’ll listen to the whole truth and let the dream go on until you hear it all.”

Her internal council conferred once more: That’s…definitely a paradox. A part of her realized, if he can’t lie, there’s no reason to distrust him.

But if he is lying?

…Then it’s low risk—the most probable idea is that he’s just a figment of your imagination, created from the images you made from hallucinations. Even if he wasn’t, this is your dream. The worst thing he can do is wake you up.

And besides, your awareness of it all being a dream just makes things much easier—you’re lucid.

And thus, the committee came to a conclusion: “…Fine, I promise.”

The horned man seemed satisfied, “I can’t lie to you…because spirits can’t lie.”

Spirit? “…What do you mean spirit?”

“Let’s start from the beginning, Nora Fei, shall we?”

“How far back?”

“…The night you died.”

No no no! I didn’t die! But she made a promise, and there was only so much time before the sun rose.

Her jaw set, “Right, the night I fell.”

“But you—”

“What happened after you spoke to me?” Please, just move on.

He did, but his eyes betrayed her wish—they lingered in disappointment, “…I was running out of time, and…my capabilities as a spirit didn’t extend to healing.

“But, I remembered stories from spirits and humans alike, dead and alive,” The man glanced at the green world around him, “there were rare occasions where spirits answered mortal prayers, begging for a second chance. Sometimes prayers begged for food, shelter, good weather, and sometimes…life from death.”

Nora avoided his pointed glance, “I never prayed to you though.”

“They don’t need to be prayers. Sometimes, a spirit hears and listens. All we need is the mortal’s permission—just as Raava did with the Avatar.”

The Avatar, the mention of him reeled her in even more than before, “The Avatar? What about the Avatar?”

“Years before I came along, spirits roamed the elemental nations. Wan, the first Avatar, sought to restore balance with the four elements. To wield that much power required him to merge with the spirit of light and peace—Raava.”

I don’t remember this from the show.

You don’t remember, a lot of things from the show, Nora.

You remember Iroh, she internally retorted, you remember Aang, Sokka, Katara, and Zuko. Do you remember that one episode about the prince dressing up in a mask and rescuing the Avatar? Oh! There was also a cabbage man, some guy with a piece of wheat from his mouth, and there was this white-haired princess.

Congrats. You truly know the show itself.

Oh, shut it, you.

But that does raise the question—

“So…you’re saying…you merged with me?” She slowly started, the parts starting to piece together, “To keep me alive?”

“Exactly.”

"You didn't give me life-altering powers as...this Raava did with the first Avatar, did you?"—God, imagine the responsibility of such a thing, the thought made her apprehensive.

His hesitation didn't seem to help, "I...am not so sure. When Raava merged with Wan all those years ago, she only had an idea of what it could mean for them. The spirits and the spirit world aren't like the mortal plane—rules and laws aren't as static with beings who can't die."

The uncertainty did little to assure her, her mind still itching for some sort of conclusive answer—no, no I'm not waiting until something happens for there to be an answer.

There must've been clues indicating it before...

Think, Nora, think...

Think...

She thought to the first night—her fingers so cold she could no longer move them, the frost forming at her hair, the moon her only guiding light in a place so uncompromising and weightless. She remembered his voice, airy and distant: "I want you to focus on your breath."

"What about the first night? When you told me about my breath?"

"...I did sense a gift within you," What?  "But whether or not that was the result of you merging with me, or with you simply being in a more spiritual world—I can't be certain."

"'More spiritual?’ There aren't any spirits on Earth?"

He shook his head: “Your world was forgotten and neglected by spirits. I must admit, I had stumbled across this world by chance and found refuge in its neglection.”

“Refuge?”

“…I am simply a lesser spirit,” she could almost sense his disappointment mixed with hesitation, “I feared I had angered someone more powerful, capable of inflicting a pain worth eternity.

“And so, I ran."

Running running running, she remembered running that much—always the running.

“Unlike the world you’re currently in, the world you used to know never had their spirits roam that Earth. It created its own balance and order where non-benders thrived. I feared that my presence alone had shifted the scales when I had first arrived years before; but, when I had merged with you—I felt it.

“I don’t know what happened to your world when we had merged, “ His admission fueled his disappointment, “But, whatever it was, we were both sent back further than the spirit world; we were sent to the elemental mortal plane.”

No.

No, this is all bullshit—Spirits? Souls? Alternative universes? Pseudo heaven?

But what other explanations are there?

“…So, the reason I’m here and not at the bottom of a bridge,” Nora’s voice was low and slow, but held the threat of releasing its rage—the ridiculousness of reality, “Is because…you kept me alive and…messed up the world equilibrium?”

“Nora Fei—”

“Why me?”

“I’m…sorry?”

“Why did you decide to save me out of all people?” Nora was just a girl dying at the bottom of a bridge who never asked to be saved. Her rage started to simmer, “There are thousands and thousands of people in the world who were on the brink of death at the same time and who probably deserved it more—why me? It could’ve been anyone greater, anyone better, anyone kinder and braver but it was me—just some girl who wasted her life running and moving. Why did you decide to save me? Why did you give me life instead of someone else money or the cure to world hunger? God knows the world needed that the most!”

If he was uncomfortable, she didn’t notice—her simmer started to bubble.

“Why did I get a miracle when my father suffered thrice as much?” She remembered his empty plate and tired eyes—everything came at a price. But why do all the good men pay?

Her father—left to suffer alone. Everyone he knew before were worlds away.

Her friends—left behind in cities she barely remembered, their memory rusting like the vending machine.

But you know what this is really about, don’t you, Nora? A voice whispered in the caverns of her lonely mind, say it.

But it isn’t true—

Say it, Nora!

He isn’t—

Stop lying to yourself! Stop running from the truth!

But no matter how much she ran, no matter how much her feet pounded against the ground, it would always find her.

Somehow, the pain of truth ran faster than she could’ve imagined.

Say it.

No—the truth didn’t run—

Say it.

—It sprinted and crawled, on two legs or all fours; did whatever it took to catch her—

Say it, Nora.

—Like a beast.

SAY IT.

And when it caught up—

“Why do I get to live when my brother dies?!”

She could feel its jaws, its teeth, its claws burrowing into her skin.

The pain prickled her eyes.

Her chest was heaving.

Her mind was pacing.

The world once so green and lush had started to change—vines started to wilt, grass stiffened and yellowed, and leaves fluttered to the ground in a pile of reds and oranges. The only one unchanged and unmoving was the man—no—spirit in front of her, his beard barely fluttering in the fake wind.

“…Why…me?” Her voice was nothing but a whisper—akin to the whistling autumn breeze.

The world once so vibrant and green was nothing but rot and decay. Where flowers once bloomed, a shell of petals took its place. Where once sunbeams poured, there was a drizzle of haze.

Stupid fucking dreams.

“…Nora Fei—” It’s just Nora, she wanted to say, but anger left her resigned, “—that bridge was not the first time I saw you.”

“…It’s not?”

He shook his head before his horns gestured to his left. What is he—?

Oh.

The overgrown vending machine, the foliage trapping its rusting metal and eating at the logo on the front—wasting away time.

“Xiao Taiyang, Xiao Taiyang! I can catch one! Just you wait!”

Gege Kong and his butterflies—

Wait—

Her brows furrowed together, observing the circled spirit, “Nora Fei, I had remembered your spirit, just as I had remembered the others I had come across in the century. I remembered when you learned to walk by watching your brother run and chase.

“Just as I had stumbled across your world by chance, I too had stumbled across your body. I had seen wars raging the world and battles scar and wound bodies more than you could ever imagine—I was…” he pursed his lips, “…always too late to save any of them. In a world where spirits never roamed, I didn’t have the power I held in the world you’ve been sent to.

“But that girl at the bottom of the bridge? That girl I had seen sneak off to a lake and climbed everything she could? I was there by chance, and I had learned to take my opportunity.

“I recognized your brother’s spirit whilst he was sent to the spirit world—he had died from nature. But you?”

Nora didn’t recognize the expression on his face—only that it was familiar to the dark rumbles of thunder.

Died from nature? He says it like it was the natural order of things.

It wasn’t natural to have him die so…so young.

He wasted his life.

He should’ve gotten a second chance instead of me.

…A second chance.

Nora, what are you—?

“You said…you recognized my brother’s spirit passing to the spirit world?”

Stop it Nora, but she didn’t listen—it was too big of an opportunity.

“That is correct.”

“And you said that there was an entrance from the spirit world to…to my world, right?”

“Nora Fei—”

“Have people made it to and from the spirit world alive?”

The spirit said nothing; his jaw set, lips pulled tight, and hands clenched in pulses.

Spirits can’t lie, the fact echoed in her mind, hitting each and every corner of her thoughts:

And he isn’t saying no.

“So, even if there was no spiritual activity before your arrival there,” the gears started turning.

Think, Nora, think!

“There was still an entryway getting to and from the spirit world—the Earth’s equilibrium situation that put me here in the first place just proves that there’s a passageway at some point! And…and you said that there was spiritual activity here which…” she swallowed, her eyes growing big, “…which means that there’s a higher chance I can travel to the spirit world alive and possibly go back home! I already came here alive and well.”

“Even if there was an entryway,” his tone was sharp, the unyielding whistle in his voice grew pricklier by the minute, “you won’t make it.”

“I can handle whatever obstacle there is, I promise.”

“No,” he sighed, “You can’t.

She could feel a simmering anger bubbling underneath the surface, “Why? Why can’t you let me have this?”

“…Everything involved with your world is on the other side of the cavern guarded by a spirit—lesser in power than me, but you are just a mortal.

“They call him The Fog of Lost souls. Only a select few have been able to make it through. Those who couldn’t are trapped in their own darkest memories until eternity.”

“Trust me,” She huffed—I’m getting my brother back, “I can handle it.”

“Oh really?” The spirit narrowed his eyes, “You think you can go through The Fog of Lost Souls?”

“Yes!”

“Then answer me this,” His eyes started to darken, “Who are you?”

“…What?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m…” she looked around—was this a trick? “I’m Nora.”

“Who is Nora?”

She opened her mouth to speak.

Her mind scoured for answers.

“Who are you, Nora?”

…Who am I?

You’re Nora!

But what does that mean?

What does it mean?

What does it mean?

Who are you?

The sun streaked through the curtain’s maw, the sun high and bright in the still-blue sky. She could hear footsteps and voices unknown echoing throughout the ship—the bushel of sounds busy and occupied.

Everyone’s awake.

She never felt so tired.

Chapter Text

Nora’s mind was a jumble.

The tray was brought to her room that faithful afternoon (how long did I sleep for?) and she bowed to the man who brought them. Their armor clanked whilst they left, guards standing by. It smells delicious, she remembered her first breakfast here, when Iroh sat down and talked. Its texture was gamy but tender, each chew sent a burst of juicy, tantalizing flavor. 

Whatever it was, she never felt more fulfilled in her life.

The first proper meal in days, she remembered, all I had were some pieces of mystery jerky and maybe three protein bars at sea, but this? It’s a full meal!

The scintillating scent of smoked meat doused in soy sauce—and the garlic?

It reminded her of home.

She paused, her mind flashed back to bits and pieces of a dream so strange. The infirmary felt bigger than its four-mattress capacity and Nora felt smaller with uncertainty.

Home, the word bounced in her mind, you think I can possibly go back home?

Remember what that spirit guy said—? Christ, what am I saying? I sound insane to be listening to some guy in a dream.

Well, at least he provided answers—given how insane it sounds.

But then again, we did land in the world…of some made-up show!

Then again, there is still the possibility of us being in a coma.

She was starting to run in circles around herself, the meat slipping out of her chopsticks—man, am I out of practice.

Focus, Nora, she internally chastised herself, get it together. What do you remember from the dream?

The spirit—he’s a part of me now, I guess, Nora still couldn’t believe it, he merged with me just as Raava did with the Avatar.

Alright, what else?

He sensed I had a “Gift,” whatever the hell that means.

No, no! What did he say about Gege Kong?

Her throat went dry at the mere mention of his name, He’s…he’s in the spirit world, right next to a doorway to my world.

To home.

Yes, to home.

You can see him again.

Maybe you can try to get him back, the impulse grew stronger.

Not without a plan, remember? We’re in unfamiliar territory. It would be fucking stupid if we just left the place now—

The creak of a door, the metal swinging on its hinges. Nora was drawn out of her thought-filled stupor, but the ideas still whispered in the back of her mind—little gusts of winds carrying echoes of familiarity.

The armored man who stood at the door held an aura of timidity—Sango, she remembered Iroh telling her.

He bowed, Nora, remembering to return the gesture, “Ni hao, Nora.”

“Ni hao, Sango.” His body seemed to perk up at the name—thank God I got his name right.

“Iro,” his words started to slow, every constant and vowel stretched out and emphasized, “yi…ge…xiao…shi.”

Fuck, I completely forgot the tones, she smiled at him, weary and strained—maybe if I keep smiling it’ll make me look less stupid?

Don’t be ridiculous! Just figure out what he has to say.

Alright alright! He said “ge” after “yi,” and “ge” is just a generic measure word, right? So…” yi” is the number “yi” which is one.

Great, you’re halfway there.

“Xiao” …the same tone as “xiao” in “Xiao Taiyang”—which is little. But what is shi?

Well, maybe put them together!

Right, right! Xiaoshi…xiaoshi…xiaoshi… She thought back to the day before and their little lessons under the guise of conversation, where did I hear that word, before? When were we talking about food? No—cars? What was it…?

Her eyes lit up, Time. Xiaoshi is hour.

Iroh, one hour, the man had said. She could see the expectant look in his eye through that unsettling mask, but his shoulders stayed squared with a hint of professionalism. The guards in the corners of the infirmary stood still and ready—do they really think I’m gonna try again? I didn’t even get that far.

Her legs still burned from two days before.

“…Iroh,” she relayed, uncertain and nervous: all you have to do, Nora, is repeat what he said, “…yige… xiao shi?”

“Dui, dui.”

She felt the tension leave her lungs and into a puff of air, “Xie xie, Sango.” He hastily left after they exchanged their bows. As exhilarated as Nora was to finally translate something on her own, the message left a sour taste in her mouth—One hour until Iroh’s lessons.

One hour until I’m allowed to leave this goddamn room.

One hour of absolutely nothing.

Nothing but your thoughts, at least.

She couldn’t help but groan. She took another bite of her breakfast, her eyes drawn to the golden gleam of her butterfly clip.

There it sat, looking pretty at her bedside.

The metallic paint was starting to chip.

Nora took inventory:

Her gym clothes, though bleached from the sun’s rays, were relatively dry and neatly folded next to her backpack; stacked right on top of her old tank top and denim shorts. The polka-dotted sack was cold, and the cloth started hardening from the salt.

She pulled open the zippered pockets and dug through the contents: the half-eaten protein bars, the mystery jerky, the empty waterskins, the folder of homework wet and peeling, the phone (which was probably nothing but a husk of metal at this point), and—

Thank God, she grinned, pulling out the piles of broken strings and beads sitting in the front pocket. As much as Iroh had assured her the backpack remained untouched, her heart couldn’t help but clench in concern over every item she found—they weren’t just hers, they were reminders.

Now that there was a possibility, she could take them home with her.

You don’t actually think it’s possible, do you? The skeptic in her challenged, There’s still a perfectly good chance that the spirit was just another figment of your imagination.

But the chances are never zero, Nora.

Her eyes glanced toward the pile of twine and butterfly beads that twinkled in the pouring sunlight. She pursed her lips at the sparse clouds bathing in the sky and the morning gull crooning that squalling tune—and I can’t even go out there, can I?

They couldn’t even let you go to the bathroom without two guards standing outside your door. Two!

Her mind was starting to race, her eyes transfixed on a stray, pink butterfly bracelet that rolled to the side, its wings the only thing stopping it from going any further. There it was—a reflection of the sun winking back at her, teasing her.

It was a bead from her brother’s first piece—a gift that she never let go of and wore on her wrist with pride.

Until it broke, her face soured at the memory, when everything was torn apart.

He would’ve been furious to know you broke it, not to mention lost some of the parts. She thought of the waves two weeks before: moving and unforgiving.

But you might see him again, soon, won’t you?

Nora furrowed her brows, the bead’s wooden wings staring back at her. She remembered the anger, her room at the mercy of a girl’s torrential hurricane tearing down everything in its wake. Her body was in the eye of the storm, but her mind was the gale itself, billowing in all directions with no purpose but to keep going.

Sitting on her mattress, Nora didn’t cry or scream or throw it all to the side—

She didn’t say a thing as she picked up a strand of string and a handful of butterfly beads: I got an hour, she sighed, placing the parts on her blanketed lap, time to get to work.

She slid the pink butterfly onto the string—slowly and carefully.

The gales of her mind swelled ever so slightly.

Iroh only knew this girl for two days—a week if you counted her time on The Wani.

But teenagers? He had known them for years.

Lu Ten was his first—always so playful and filled with energy as a child. He could still recall the games he wanted to play ever since he learned to walk and run: pretending to be spirits from operas they had seen, monster hunting in the courtyard, or just running and chasing one another.

Sometimes, they didn’t need prompts to run and have fun.

When he grew into a young man, his energy went to his mouth and wit. The women swooned at his maturing face and nimble flattery, remembering what his father had told him of respect and honor.

It wasn’t a concern until a young man screamed at Lu Ten in the courtyard one summer night—one of the young women Lu Ten had danced with was married.

He grew into an impeccable young man; he felt his heart swell.

But restraint never ran in the family.

His second was Zuko—though filled with energy, was young and troubled. He never played in the courtyard or pretended to chase monsters, he never went to social events growing up, and he was never spoiled despite his position of royalty (A blessing at times, a curse at most).

He was everything Lu Ten was not: Where Lu Ten was playful, Zuko was solemn. Where his son would socialize, his oi would stand by. Where Lu Ten would listen, Zuko would shout.

Iroh never realized the extent of his troubles until he was on a ship to nowhere, Zuko’s head shaved for shame and face marked for it. The crew had always asked him how he had the patience to deal with such an explosive boy, and it was quite simple, really—instead of anger it was sadness; regret for not noticing sooner.

Iroh glanced at the girl in front of him, remembering how proud he was when Zuko ordered them to turn around.

Only the spirits know whether he’ll continue going down that path.

Then, there was the girl herself—she had the others’ energy, but that was where the similarities ended. While Zuko and Lu Ten didn’t know their limits, the girl only knew restraint. Their lessons yesterday and the day before had proven it: she second-guessed herself every step of the way, hesitating to even attempt to speak Earth. Her mouth, though running faster than he could sometimes catch up on, was always asking, prodding, apprehensive before she felt comfortable trying. At first, he assumed she simply distrusted him (they are strangers, after all).

But as the night wore on and hours passed by, he realized it was less an issue of trust and more of an issue of character. Of course, being a teenager, she’s had her impulses, and Iroh realized her impulse to run wasn’t just physical.

If she didn’t understand after the first time asking, she simply smiled and nodded—he realized what that weary smile meant a little too late. If she made a mistake, a flurry of apologies was her habit. It became an exercise to read her face and figure out what she needed.

It didn’t help that Iroh couldn’t tell what the girl even wanted at times.

He might’ve been a general— a master of war tactics and mind games, the virtuoso of the battlefield — but he was reminded every single day that teenagers weren’t a war to fight in or a battle to be won; They were people to be understood.

And here Iroh was trying to understand, pouring himself more tea as the young lady hesitated with each word: “Iro…ni…hao…ma?” Iroh, how are you? Her words were still laced with the spirit’s tongue.

He smiled, his mouth and mind shifting to that of Earth’s words, “I am good, Nora.” Nora wo hen hao. He made sure to emphasize each turn of tone, each varying vowel, and each created consonant—just as he had directed Sango. He pressed the cup against his lips and felt the warm, sweet nectar of nature bless his mouth.

Within the three hours they had gathered, she barely touched her tea. No, no—her eyes were drawn to the window and the sparkling day, gaze distant and hands fiddled with the wooden beads.

It was only when the butterfly beads clattered around her wrist, he deemed it necessary to at least acknowledge it. Learning moment, he reminded himself.

His eyes went to a wandering hand fumbling with her wrist, “Ah, you have very pretty shouzhuo.”

Her hands immediately dropped to her side, head perked up and shoulders drawn, “U-Uh…Shouzhuo…shenme…yisi?” What does Shouzhuo mean?

Her gaze followed the pointed look at her wrist. There it was—that sheepish grin, “…Xie…xie….dui…bu…qi.”

Thank you, I am sorry.

Iroh shook his head, “No need to apologize, friend.” Pengyou, Wo bu yao daoqian. A phrase that became more familiar each time it was mentioned. Her eyes wandered in the awkward silence, her jaw set, and her gaze concentrated.

The sound of clinking porcelain never felt louder.

Three hours, he sighed, leaving the cup cradled in his hands, and we’ve barely gone past reviewing pleasantries.

A haze seemed to put her in its hold, a haze pacing and tossing and turning and never sleeping. He lived with Zuko for three years—he knew how to recognize a troubled mind.

His mindset switched to the tongue of spirits: Ying-wen as he recalled, “Yu…sa-lee-pu…gu-du…ora…ba-da?”

She seemingly slept until a little past midday, but he felt she deserved the luxury of the question. Her brows knit together, concentration not quite her friend.

If she were Lu Ten, she would’ve poured out her troubles to her father, maybe request that they play cards or go on an outing.

If she were Zuko, she wouldn’t be nearly as quiet as she was now—her thoughts would’ve been present in face and action, tone and attitude.

But she was Nora: a new person to understand, a pattern to discover.

“…I slept well…Iroh.” She started, slow and careful picking out each word as if they were old and porcelain, “…Bed…was…comfortable…How about you?”

Iroh sighed, taking another sip. The guards stood by, faces behind kabuto and mengu alike, and their presence (though greatly appreciated. Friends are always welcome!) did little to settle the tension.

“I…sa-lee-pu gu-du. Gu-du…da-rem?

“…Yes, they were good…dreams…. were good…” she murmured and mumbled, words trailing out into nothing but murmurs.

Maybe a more direct approach would coax her out of whatever thoughts kept her captive. Maybe she could open to him and they could discuss—language barriers or none.

“How are you?” Ni hao ma?

We’ve made an almost solid system in our communication, he couldn’t help but feel proud, she might not have any difficulty—

“…Wo hen hao, Iroh.” I am good, she had said, “hen hao…hen hao.”

“What’s bothering you?” ni zenme juede shenme?

Her lips pursed together, fingers subconsciously fiddling with the newfound jewelry (perhaps it was in that curious little bag of hers), “…bu…bu…” no, no.

Iroh understood.

So, the direct approach wasn’t successful. I must admit, I’m proud of her tone—spoke like a true Earth Kingdom citizen!

Of course, Iroh didn’t forget the bigger issue at hand.

Maybe if we give it time, he considered, she’ll need to confer with us. Or perhaps she needs the time to gather her thoughts. Sometimes, the best plans take time, Iroh. Patience is key to victory—as is recognizing openings.

An opportunity will present itself.

Iroh drank the pool of tea sitting at the bottom of the cup, leaving nothing but china stained from use; the sun was still in the sky.

He could afford to wait.

Iroh knew teenagers for years.

But at least Lu Ten and Zuko voiced their trials and tribulations once time wore on.

Is it because she’s a girl? He thoroughly considered, the sun dipping below the horizon and bathing the sky in its orange brilliance, I’ve never had the best time understanding young ladies.

His memory flashed an image of a certain princess and an Earth Kingdom doll.

She would be a teenager too, Iroh pursed his lips, younger than Nora and maybe much easier to decipher. I wouldn’t say she would be as polite; he knew his brother wouldn’t be a forgiving man.

Nora tucked a strand of blue hair out of the way, a sunburnt scar tracing along the hairline. Her chopsticks picked at the steaming bowl of rice and Silverskim fish. She didn’t waste, despite her seemingly clouded mind, but her movements were slow—disoriented and distant.

“Is-a…. nide yu,” Your fish, “no gu-da?”

Her head perked up, broken from whatever thoughtful stupor her consciousness was led into. They came in waves, he noted, but her troubles… always seem to come back. She stared down at the dish, chopsticks loosely hanging from her fingers, “My…yu?” Her brows furrowed, “Yu…shi fish ma?” Yu is fish?

“Fe-sha?” Iroh’s words were slow and careful, feeling how his mouth curved around the phrase, “Fe-sha…fe-sha…fe-sha…yu is-a fe-sha. Fesha is-a yu.”

“…My…fish…tastes…good.” She took a bite, the newfound bracelets jangling with the movement.

So…from what we’ve gathered—it isn’t her sleeping, her room, seasickness, or the food, He was running out of possible options, of course, there’s a possibility of dishonesty with her statements—but then again, what’s her goal? What does she possibly want to keep from the only one that could understand her?

The only one that could understand her….

The only one….

He paused.

Cutlery tapped against delicate dishes.

Of course, he hummed, why haven’t I thought of it sooner?

He thought of Lu Ten—how his voice grew louder with every passing second with his friends, a jollity different from the serene contemplation with his father.

He thought of Zuko—how his voice grew quieter every second with his uncle, a vulnerability different from the outbursts with his crew.

Maybe she needs something more like her.

Someone, he corrected himself.

Iroh didn’t fail to notice her glance, her gaze following how he set his chopsticks down on a bowl still full.

Perhaps…I’ve been approaching this the wrong way.

Iroh must admit, two people and three guards brought life into a room such as his.

But three people and three guards?

He felt the liveliness increase tenfold, the fulfillment bringing a smile to his face.

Of course, some would beg to disagree.

“You barely drank your tea, Zuko-ouji.” The aforementioned prince did nothing but glare, the cup sitting still, untouched on the table.

His gaze switched between Iroh and the blue-haired guest sitting next to him. Her bites were small, careful, and conscious of the people surrounding her.

The girl made the effort of averting her gaze, brows knit into a confused bundle.

“Oji,” his words slow, warning, “why am I here?”

“Whatever do you mean, Zuko-ouji?” Iroh reached for his bowl of rice, the grains stained with sauce, “Can’t an old man spend some quality time with his oi?”

“But—wha—she—” he started to sputter, his emotions getting ahead of his words. A hand shot towards the girl across the table, “—With her in the room?!”

Nora pursed her lips at the gesture and murmured foreign words under her breath. Iroh knew enough to recognize annoyance.

“Think of this as an opportunity, oi.” The retired general started slow, careful not to let the anger explode. He recognized Zuko’s rage—these were simply bursts, “we have a guest on The Wani your age—”

“—Oji, she’s here for my mission—!”

“—who holds incredible wisdom from a world so distant and foreign, and speaks a language equally as strange—”

“—Strange is an understatement—"

“—and as fascinating of an experience it is to have these lessons,” his smile grew with each crescendoing grumble, “I do miss spending quality time with my oi. Maybe we can do it together.”

He thought of Lu Ten, his grin wide and boisterous.

He thought of the days after the siege had ended.

He thought of his distraught when he couldn’t even retrieve a body.

Zuko isn’t my son.

But he might as well be.

It was a fact he had known for years. He could only hope Zuko knew as well.

“Oji…” The prince sighed, rage simmering down to nothing but water in the pot, “we always spend so much time every morning. You know, the meditation, katas, and breakfast?”

Ah yes, his routine, he couldn’t help but chuckle, “There’s no harm in the extra time spent.”

“But I still need the time to find—”

“—The Avatar,” Always Zuko and the Avatar, “I am aware of the importance of your mission, Zuko-ouji.”

“But…but oji,” his shoulders deflated, his gaze fixed upon the girl, “I don’t need to learn this language. She opens to you just fine—if she has information on the Avatar, you could just tell me.”

“…does she, now?”

“Does she what?”

“Open up to me,” Iroh looked over at the girl, stacking the empty bowls onto her tray neatly and thoughtfully. Zuko followed his gaze.

She looked up, her hair bobbing up in a bounce of blue. Caution took a hold of her, eyes snapping between the two, mouth agape with the words lost on her lips, bracelet swinging against the bowls with muffled clunks.

A breath.

Then two.

Then…

She gave a slow, awkward smile, the heart-shaped mark on her freckled skin widening with each strain of a grin. She failed to notice a chunk of meat caught in between her teeth.

Zuko didn’t take his eyes off her—gaze pointed and disbelieving, “…Oji.”

“Yes, Zuko?”

“…Please, for the love of Agni’s goodness—” he let in a harsh inhale, sharp and brisk, “—don’t tell me that you brought me here…to court this girl.”

And thus, Iroh couldn’t help but let a burst of laughter escape, each bounce left him breathless, his nephew evermore scarlet, and the poor girl evermore confused. Zuko’s face started to match the color of his nation, bleeding with the angry red of his scar.

Oh, Zuko.

He could hear the guards’ metal armor clanking with each chuckle—their humor was exaggerated with the echoes of their kabuto.

“Oji! This isn’t funny—hey, stop it! As your prince, I command you to stop!”

“O-Oh, Zuko-ouji, you are truly a joy!” Iroh felt the jolly aches in his chest and stomach—laughter can truly be an incredible exercise, can’t it? “You know, oi, that wasn’t what I first had in mind. But now that I think about it—”

“Oji, no—”

“—Why not? She is a lovely woman, Zuko!”

“Iroh, I know you guys are talking about me, what—"

“—I—oji…” he whined. Whether it be from embarrassment or the incoming anger, the flush of red complimented his scowl, “What is this really about?”

“…Whatever do you—?” Iroh saw his pointed look, “…You know me too well, oi.”

“I’ve lived on a boat with you for three years,” he scoffed, arms crossing over his chest (he still hasn’t touched his tea), “Why was I called here? You didn’t insist that I join your lessons yesterday, or the day before.”

Because you didn’t want to join us, he wanted to add—but teenagers, he learned, didn’t often say what they think or do what they said.

“I…” Iroh poured himself another cup, the pot almost empty, “…think that something is troubling young Nora.” The girl perked up at the mention of her name and snapped out of whatever thoughts plagued her mind.

Another trance, it seems.

The butterfly clip winked and twinkled back at them.

Prince Zuko rolled his eyes, “…alright, and?”

“…I was hoping that the presence of someone her age could…encourage her to open up.”

“…Are you serious?”

“I must admit, oi, the plan seemed sounder in my head.”

Zuko pursed his lips together, golden eyes meeting the girl’s confused brown. His gaze shifted to her garb: a dark red pha nung hung around her legs, covered in soup and oil stains from the days before, a black undershirt hanging loose on her body. The sleeves, usually hidden under black armguards, reached well past her hands if they weren’t rolled up on her forearms, revealing ghosts of scars that anyone could see if they squinted hard enough.

Iroh swore that the pha nung belonged to Doctor Dong Yan. The shirt could’ve been anyone’s, for that matter—it was customary uniform wear.

“Oji, when was the last time she went outside?”

“…Ever since you found her, Zuko.”

His nephew sputtered in disbelief, “What?! She hasn’t been outside at all?”

“You know how Dong Yan-Sama is, Zuko-ouji. She’s a remarkable healer, and if she tells us to keep her out of the sun for the next couple of days, I trust her judgment.

“And besides, Nora didn’t seem to have a problem with it when I told her the terms. In fact, she gave me that charming smile.”

“I—” Zuko’s sigh melted into a groan, running a tired hand over his face (When did his eyebags get darker?), “the sun’s down, now! Just go to the night market with her and…and I don’t know, get her some new clothes! Just make sure you don’t get lost or something, we’re leaving tomorrow with or without you two. I can’t believe I’m telling you something so obvious…”

I suppose it’ll be a good teaching moment for her as well. Iroh hummed, a hand reaching up to stroke his graying beard, she can learn the currency and their measure words. She seemed to have a good grasp on numbers, already, and—oh! I can teach her more about different clothes!

Maybe even some of the food or poetry at the stalls.

He glanced over at the prince, the boy pinching the bridge of his nose, “And what about you, oi?”

“What about me? I already went around and asked about the Avatar. We’ve already resupplied for the Southern Air Temple, too.”

“No no, oji—not the Avatar or the Southern Air Temple: you. You look like you’ve been overworking yourself again, Zuko-ouji.”

The prince blinked.

First, it was confusion.

Then, it was realization.

Finally, dread.

“Oji, no. I’m not going with you to the—!”

“Stupid market,” Zuko murmured under his breath, the hurried glances of Earth Kingdom peasants didn’t go unnoticed. The night market, he remembered the first time he went to one—a couple of months into his banishment.

By Agni, did he hate it: the sights too many and bright, the people too many, the sounds too much and too loud, the scents overlapping and becoming a flurry of sensations—spicy mixed with sweet, savory with fragrant, disgusting with sour.

At least I can confidently say—his gaze watched his uncle’s topknot and the back of the girl’s straw liangmao— that the night market hasn’t changed a bit. Why did I even come here?

No—he knew why, and it was standing next to him, beside a girl of peculiarities.

Despite the said girl’s attempts to hide the blue in her hair, no amount of straw in her hat could cover the fact that she stood next to two Fire Nation royalties and a bushel of guards.

First, they saw Zuko—the reminder of his purpose branded onto his face.

Then, they saw Iroh—a face of the Fire Nation to many, but the General of the West to some.

The guards, however, solidified their status—their presence was no longer faceless. Importance was added to their name.

Their gaze would trail from the two to the girl—Who would wear a liangmao in the middle of the night? Some might ask, It’s a farming hat, meant for shielding sun and shade.

And then…

“Gao, look! Her hair’s blue—!”

“—Don’t look, it’s rude to stare—"

“—Is she a spirit—?”

“—Dragon of the—”

“—Prince—?

“—Fire Nation scum—"

He saw the way her shoulders raised and tensed, almost disappearing into the hat itself. Even if she couldn’t catch a lick of their gossip, their attention was clear.

And their attention was hostile.

Her hair was already short enough to be covered by the liangmao, hairs barely wisping past her chin. If she were by herself, she would’ve stood a chance.

But with Zuko and Iroh—

He almost felt guilty being here with her. Surely, Iroh would’ve passed as any other Fire Nation soldier by most.

Zuko’s scar?

His brand of shame?

I hate the night market; I hate it so much.

No, calm yourself, Zuko, you can do this. I suppose it’s only fitting that you get dragged along—it was your idea anyway.

Zuko scoffed to himself, watching as his uncle pulled out another hanfu, gaudy with light greens and delicate whites. The fabric fluttered in the gentle breeze, the silk skirts reflecting the lantern light into a pale, grassy shade.

Hopefully, she’ll accept this one—the faster we get through this, the better.

“Nora,” his uncle’s voice was low and slow, barely able to lay above the populace of noise, “Do you think this is pretty?” Ni juede zhege hen piaoliang ma?

He expected her to ask that dreaded question.

But once he saw her hesitation, her intrigue etched onto her face—

For the first time in forever, I finally have hope.

Hope that I can get out of this awful place.

Her hands raked through the silks, the green turning a fluorescent white where her fingers lifted them closer towards the flickering lanterns—like tidal waves curling towards the sky. Her movements were mindful and meek as if anything brash could tear the quality fabric.

The glowing green brought more color to her wide gaze.

The girl continued to trail.

And then…she paused.

Her mouth went agape at the embroidery at the bottom—little sparkling jewels that danced in the moonlight.

Like little stars, he supposed. The blue and pink needlework stitched a picture of a flower painted in serene watercolors. The yellow pollen in the center was dotted with those dazzling beads. Suddenly, the leaves stitched around the bust and the stars down the side made more sense—it was a Bluestar-themed hanfu. If the sleeve draped down her arms, it would’ve been akin to blue and pink flowers shedding a trail of stars.

I…suppose it’s well-tailored in Earth Kingdom standards.

She nibbled on her bottom lip, head tilting as she studied the fabric once more, “…hen piaoliang.”

It’s pretty.

She says it’s pretty.

Zuko could see his uncle’s grin widening in the corner of his eye—finally! Finally!

“Yinwei…” But….

Why, why would she say that?

Please don’t ask, Zuko could feel his face sour from desperation.

Please don’t ask.

Please don’t ask—

“…duoshao qian?” How much is it?

Damn it, she asked. Zuko couldn’t help but groan, of course, she asked. It’s what she’s been asking for the past thirty minutes! Oji can’t even get her an Agni-damned snack without her fussing over funds.

But Iroh, ever so frustratingly patient, simply smiled, “Ai wi-lu tel-yu i-fa yu li-ku itto.”

He saw the girl frown, licking her dry lips as she thought, waited, and contemplated.

At first, he didn’t know if her words got lost in the sea of clamor.

Then, a sigh, “Duoshao qian?” She repeated.

Iroh’s smile, though warm, left a mark of melancholy in the annoyingly lively air, “Nora—”

She started to speak—blabbering and ranting in that bizarre tongue of bundled r’s and irregular rhythms, vowels that slurred into one another, and consonants too harsh and sharp to understand.

His uncle seemed to cling on to every “word” the girl said—every sound, every gesture with her hands. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that her language was in the hands, how they moved with every word spoken, meaning in their dance.

Is that part of their language?

He doubted it—but his uncle did mention the unpredictability of spirits.

“Oji, what is she saying?” Zuko’s brows furrowed together, arms still crossed, “Doesn’t she know that we can afford pretty much anything in this market?”

“Ah, and yet you discouraged me from buying that new Pai Sho set.”

“That’s different, oji,” His voice shot out into a hiss, “You already have one! I told you before, we’re here to buy clothes for the girl—”

“—Her name is Nora, oi—”

“—and clothes are more important than stupid Pai Sho!” He could still see the soup stain in the corner of his eye, “What’s taking her so long to buy something? You know what? Just get the hanfu. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“…you…pianyi,” the girl stumbled through the words. Her brows knit together in a bundle of focus, hands playing with the bracelet around her wrist (where did she get that?). Her tone was exaggerated and slow, “…de…yifu…ma?” Do you have cheap clothes here?

What is this girl’s problem?

He groaned, running a hand over his face—The sun went down ages ago.

And here I am, stuck with my uncle and an idiot.

“Oji, why is she like this?”

“I…well,” the old man cleared his throat, “from what I can tell…maybe it’s just a force of habit.”

“Habit?” He scoffed, “Of what? She just needs to figure out what she wants and stop being so indecisive.”

His uncle gave him a look—unreadable in Zuko’s eyes. What was it?

Sadness?

Fear?

Disappointment?

The night market felt all the more stifling.

The swelling music of street performers suddenly felt louder than before, the place around him dimmer, and the clamor of people roared into his shriveled ear. The quiet between the three of them framed a perfect little picture, a silence emphasized by the unbearable sounds: A prince, a general, and a mystery.

He could hear the gossip and the gaggle polluting the air:

“I’ve heard the prince—”

“—Don’t look, don’t look—!”

“—Kind of ugly—”

“—Fire nation—?

“—Have you heard—?”

It’s like my first night market, Zuko could feel the distant memory of a white gauze wrapped around his face and his body much shorter.

Come out and enjoy yourself! His uncle encouraged, warm, and painfully hopeful.

The Earth Kingdom didn’t just gossip—if it were gossip, they would’ve at least cared about discretion.

No, they were reminders.

No matter how much his uncle encouraged him to try the filthy street food or buy some of the local merchandise, he couldn’t escape the prying eyes and foul-mouthed conversations of him, them—

Us.

He found an alley—less light, less people, he supposed.

He found solace and solitude—for five minutes, at most.

He found other people—many disfigured, all dirty. Their clothes could’ve been an Earth Kingdom green: if the dark didn’t blanket them so, if the dirt didn’t shield their identity, if the shame on all their faces didn’t unite them all.

“…sir?” The voice sounded young, oh so young.

If it were the Fire Nation, he wouldn’t see this kind of treatment.

Zuko wasn’t an idiot—a good handful of men stuffed together in a bleak alleyway were missing parts of themselves that no one could return: their limbs, their sight, their dignity.

Isn’t it great to die for your country? To suffer? He heard his teachers whisper in the back of his mind.

The Earth Kingdom is barbaric, he allowed himself to think because any other conclusion would’ve been treason.

He ran out of there faster than he could blink.

“—uko? Zuko-ouji?” He snapped out of whatever spell he was under.

It’s just a night market, he reminded himself.

But his uncle’s statement rattled his skull—maybe it was just a force of habit.

What kind of person would make a habit out of nothing wasted?

What kind of a person has a habit of spending nothing when they can?

“…Oji.”

“Oi?”

“You call yourself a…well-traveled man, don’t you?”

“I call myself many things, Zuko-ouji,” he chuckled, “but yes, I consider myself a well-traveled man.”

“Do you know where the cheaper vendors could be?”

“…perhaps further away from the port,” he didn’t miss how his uncle’s eyes softened, “Oi, there might be some new plays hidden for a discount there. Some art?”

“I’ll be fine, oji.”

“Oi, I know how much you dislike going to the night market—”

“—Oji—”

“—But no matter what anyone says about you, always remember that your honor lies in your own thoughts and mind—”

“I know I know, oji.” But he didn’t—if his uncle’s frown said anything, he knew the truth as well, “I already told you—I’m fine. I’m planning on going to bed for the night, you know. I don’t want to sleep through the morning.”

“…If you say so, oi.”

The girl (Nora, he reminded himself) looked back at him, a pair of brown eyes peaking under the stray strands of straw. He remembered the hallway: how her lashes created shadows on her gaze, how her sunspots and imperfections added character to her skin, how her hair—

He tore his eyes away as their footsteps retreated into the night.

What. Was. That?

I did it again.

Whatever, just get back to The Wani, Zuko.

But right in the corner of his eye, the abandoned, green skirts flickered with their golden beads. The glisten of their pearls truly emphasized the star in Bluestar.

And the blue…

Don’t do it, Zuko.

But the embroidered petals waved—beckoning.

Nora never thought that shopping would take her mind off spirits.

I can’t believe how expensive clothes can get, she remembered their mini crash course on coppers (mao), silver (kuai), and gold (bai which, Nora learned was hundreds).

She couldn’t understand their nonchalance.

And Prince Zuko?

His impatience astounded her.

“I’ve seen four-year-olds with better patience than him,” She snorted to herself, a bag of clothes worth coppers (Thank God) slung over her shoulder, “That damn prince…always yelling and shouting when I don’t even say a thing.”

She remembered his rage in the show but, watching it on a screen with the occasional static differed greatly from being the victim of such.

Is it bad that I was grateful he left?

No no—he doesn’t deserve your guilt, Nora.

Still—

—just because he’s some fictional character with a sad backstory and a good design doesn’t mean you need to like the guy, her internal council congregated and agreed.

Besides, remember our agreement?

Do you mean the plan?

Right, the plan.

Once you find a concrete location of the portals, you’re leaving the ship. The sooner, the better.

But, how long do we have?

Until he finds the Avatar. Remember? He was in that giant ball of ice—

—I vaguely remember—

—Look, Nora. You don’t have to worry about them. It’s a kid’s show, remember?

Right…right…

They’re going to win in the end, anyway. It’s guaranteed.

Her free hand wrapped around the iron hinges.

The door groaned as it gaped open.

“I’ll just tie the loose ends of the plan…” she murmured to herself, bag slumping against the nearest wall, “obviously it isn’t concrete but a skeleton works—”

Nora froze.

Her gaze pulled towards her red mattress.

I don’t—wasn’t this worth five gold pieces? I told them—

But they bought it anyway.

She felt the parasite of guilt eating away at her heart, and the leaves etched onto the beautiful bust did nothing but sit there.

Looking pretty.

Looking innocent.

Fuck, it’s a beautiful dress—

—Hanfu, remember—?

—But who bought—?

—Iroh was with us—

—Maybe one of the guards—

—Maybe—

—No, no, he did nothing but shout all night long—

Whoever it was, her downward spiral came to a pause, it’s…a nice gesture. Expensive, but…nice.

Nora knelt by the folded skirts and, for what seemed like hours, just stared.

She didn’t think about the dream.

She didn’t think about the God-awful lesson she gave Iroh.

She didn’t even think about the future, the skeletons of what a plan could be.

She just…stared.

Her thoughts never felt so...quiet.

She heard her heart beating in her ears.

Chapter Text

When Nora was six, her first friends were her brother’s.

Connor and Ben, Ben and Connor—two boys she met on a sweltering day.

For only a month, they danced and laughed and played; splashed in the water and pulled pranks in the city.

They made promises, they kept secrets, and they included her every step of the way.

She didn’t care if they liked her because of her brother, at least she was finally a part of something.

Her smile disappeared when they came home to her father gathering their backpacks and suitcases, no furniture to bring or decorations to pack.

It was a familiar sight, but the sorrow was greater.

She remembered the city getting smaller and smaller as the car trudged on, wishing she would’ve stayed.

When Nora was seven, her fourth friend was her own.

Alice Petunia, Little Miss Alice—not kind, not cruel; but ignorant and loud.

Nora was the new girl at school, they found: a wonder, a mystery, anything but a girl.

She was a puzzle to figure out, and Alice thought she could solve her, grasp her, and maybe show her off—proud.

“Nora’s my best friend now!” She yelled, hand grasping ever so tightly that Nora felt nothing. The classmates murmured and whispered, bathing in their jealousy.

Everyone wanted a piece of the new girl, everyone wanted to bear that crown—But Nora chose Alice, and Alice chose her.

Until she saw the shadow of a neighborhood fading away into the horizon, their car groaning and trudging onto the asphalt.

When Nora was eight, she stopped counting.

Connor and Ben, Alice Petunia, Kenny, Rory, Christie, Luke—they all started to blur together..

For she learned how friendship was fleeting, and how lonely her birthday was on that cold, cold day.

The only ones who came were her family: Baba in an old suit and tie, and Gege Kong holding the bowl of birthday noodles.

As per tradition, they watched the sun dip below the horizon, the earth swallowing its rays until that luminous disk was nothing more than a memory.

“Xiao Taiyang,” her brother smiled, “Happy Birthday. Shengri Kualie.”

“Shengri Kualie, Xiao Taiyang,” her father murmured in her hair—dark as ink and twice as dark when the moon hid behind the clouds.

She didn’t say a thing, she only observed—how the sun would never change, despite how much they moved away.

No matter where they were.

No matter what they did.

The sun was there to stay.

She looked to her left: the only two guests at her party that she always had.

No matter where they were in the world, no matter what roof they had over their heads, they would always show up with that bowl of birthday noodles.

Connor and Ben, Alice Petunia, Kenny, Rory, Christie, and Luke—they became an amalgamation of one forgotten memory.

She could only remember their figures fading in the distance, the wheels pushing them further and further away.

But her family? They were the only ones she could trust to stay.

She leaned against her father’s touch.

The moon lit her eyes as she watched the fading day.